


It Is Ours to Endure or Embrace

by kyrene



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: AU, Incest, M/M, explicit underage incest, parental death (offscreen), underage incest, verbal abuse (offscreen)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:23:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 85,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrene/pseuds/kyrene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because the world needs more underage-Eames, and my "Inception" fanfiction needs more incest. Also, because I'm completely shameless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Are you sure you and Mum are related?" was the first thing Eames said to Arthur. 

Not that Arthur was surprised by this. Maybe a little surprised that the shy teenager was being so forthright. He'd been silent ever since stepping off the plane -- aside from a quick grunt to verify that he was the "Eames" that Arthur had been waiting for -- and all the way down to the luggage claim.

Well, "shy" was probably the wrong descriptor. Quiet, wary, watchful... any of those would have probably suited the boy better.

Arthur didn't suppose that he could blame Eames. Not for his wariness, nor for his disbelief. Looking at Eames, he didn't think his nephew could have looked less like him. Eames had sharp bone structure and a nose that somehow looked crooked even though it wasn't. His eyes were a clear, dark grey, his hair was a riotous brown mess of cowlicks, kept short but still completely out of control. He was almost as tall as Arthur but more slender, which only made sense, seeing as he wasn't yet sixteen and clearly had quite a bit of growing to do yet; out, if maybe not up.

That was to say nothing about those plump red lips that Arthur was determinedly trying not to notice. They looked as though they could have been crafted with great skill and deliberate intent by a master of pornography. Perfectly shaped cock-sucking lips, and Arthur wasn't really comfortable thinking such thoughts about his own flesh and blood, never mind the tenuousness of their link and the fact that they'd never set eyes on one another before.

Arthur himself was of average height, a little slim but all muscle, and he considered that his features were average as well. They were certainly not arresting -- possibly literally -- like Eames', even though he _had_ been called handsome more than once in the past. His own lips were pretty decently shaped, he supposed, but a little thin. He had brown eyes and dark hair that he wore carefully pomaded out of his way. And completely opposite to Eames' scruffy jeans and teeshirt, Arthur was in a button-up shirt, fitted trousers, and matching jacket. 

So Arthur could see where Eames was a little disbelieving. But he knew better.

"Moira and I had the same mother," he informed his nephew diffidently. He and Eames' mother had met all of twice, and it was hard to mourn the death of a half sister who hadn't been a part of his life. Still, a loss was a loss, and he was aware that Eames' loss was far, far greater than his own. "But we both took more after our fathers." He gave Eames a long, searching look, examining his face and comparing it to the image he had in his head of his half-sister, from a few photos and their two meetings. "It looks as though you took more after _your_ father as well," he added.

Eames' incredibly full lips twisted bitterly to one side, which did nothing at all to thin them. "I wouldn't know," he said, each word dripping with poorly repressed anger and no small amount of scorn. Not aimed at Arthur, fortunately, but he knew he was going to have to tread carefully around Eames. He was all grief and teenage hormones, and obviously had some deep-seated issues. Not that Arthur could blame him for that.

Still, he was stuck with Eames, and so he was going to have to do his best for his nephew. 

When Arthur had discovered that his half-sister had died in a car accident and left him guardian to her teenage son, he hadn't quite believed it. Their family tree branched in so many different directions that there surely _had_ to be someone closer, someone better suited to caring for an orphaned teen.... But, no. Moira -- with Eames, of course -- had been living with Moira's father and his current wife, both of whom had been in the same accident that had killed Moira. They hadn't survived either. No one seemed to know where Moira and Arthur's mother was, and Arthur wouldn't have trusted her with her grandson for a moment even if she had been right there. 

In fact, Moira's will had named Arthur as her son's guardian in the event of her death specifically to prevent this happening. When Arthur had agreed to that via email, back when Moira had been pregnant with Eames, before Arthur was even old enough to legally be labeled an adult, he hadn't ever expected that it would ever come to pass. It had been more of a gesture than anything... or so he had thought at the time.

And just look where that thought had gotten him now....

Not that he begrudged Eames having somewhere to go, someone to take him in. He'd have felt bad if the boy had simply been shunted into the system until he was of age. So even if he hadn't been named in Moira's will, Arthur probably would have been willing to take him in. He wasn't that selfish, even though this was something that, one way or another, was going to completely change his life.

"Anyway," he continued, not dismissively, or at least so he hoped. "That's how we can look so different and still be related."

"Hm." Eames didn't look disbelieving, but he didn't seem inclined to pursue the subject any further. Arthur was just as relieved, even though this meant that Eames sank back into that same awkward silence he had arrived in.

Eames had a pathetic amount of luggage, considering that he was moving in with Arthur. Arthur wondered whether this was all he'd _had_ , or if he was simply expecting Arthur to provide him with new personal belongings. Either possibility was unfortunate, though in different ways. He couldn't really tell when Eames hadn't spoken more than a handful of words to him, but Arthur suspected that this was just all that Eames owned, or at least all that he had bothered to bring with him. 

At least Arthur could provide Eames with a room of his own, even though he'd had his home built without any plans to share it with anyone else. Or at least, not anyone who wasn't sleeping in his bed..... But at any rate, Arthur's house had a spare room that he'd been using as an office. Since he almost never actually used said office, it hadn't been any great hardship to empty it out and get a twin size bed set up. He'd left the desk in there and had a dresser on order, which hadn't arrived yet. Somehow he didn't think Eames would complain about that last.

Mainly because he didn't expect that Eames would say much of anything. There was also the fact that he didn't have much by way of clothing to put in the absent dresser or the closet.

"Is this the last of it?" he asked, after he and Eames had wrestled the third bag off the conveyor belt. When Eames nodded, Arthur heaved everything onto a cart and led Eames to the parking garage.

If Eames had any opinion on Arthur's car, he didn't express it. But Arthur was willing to give him his space. He had lost his mother, he was moving in with an uncle he'd never met, and he was going to be living, not only a new home, but in an entirely new country. 

Arthur kind of figured that he'd have been pretty quiet himself if their roles had been reversed.

The car trip was less awkward than it might have been, considering that it passed in complete silence. Arthur didn't try to engage Eames in conversation and Eames didn't offer any commentary or ask any questions.

This changed once he saw the house.

"What, are you a serial killer?" he asked, gazing at his new home with a somewhat judgmental expression.

Arthur snorted, but he couldn't help his lips curling in a small smile. "I just like my privacy," he replied evenly. He didn't take offense. After all, it had been his choice to live three minutes off the nearest paved road, at the end of a well-maintained gravel drive, surrounded by trees and overgrown fields.

It wasn't as though he lived in a cabin. The house itself was perfectly respectable; after all, he'd had Cobb design it for him, and for all his other flaws the man was a brilliant architect. 

It was small but had all the comforts and luxuries of a penthouse in the city. More, in fact, and Arthur would know, having once _owned_ a penthouse in a major metropolis. He'd found it to be overrated. Here he had a garage, a small dojo out back filled with exercise equipment, a tool shed, and inside the house were all the most important appliances; washer and dryer, dishwasher, espresso machine....

It might not look promising from the outside, but Eames would see differently once he got inside. Of this, Arthur was confident... even if he had absolutely no idea how he was going to raise a teenage boy without completely screwing him up.

***

Eames got moved in without any fuss or noise. Arthur felt as though he ought to offer to help, but he didn't know how, and besides, he kind of doubted it would be welcome.

"Once you're settled, come into the kitchen," he said, instead. He would make them dinner, because that was something that he knew he would be able to do right.

Eames nodded, not meeting Arthur's eyes, but not making too big a deal of this fact. "Thanks," he said roughly, in that voice that made Arthur wonder if he snuck cigarettes. It wasn't clear what he was grateful for, but Arthur was just glad to hear him say _anything_.

The first thing Eames did was vanish into the bathroom, and Arthur felt guilty for not asking him if he'd needed a toilet at the airport, before he drove him all the way home. But it was too late now, and so Arthur just grimaced and made his way to the kitchen as he'd indicated.

Since he wasn't sure what to feed a teenager he just cooked himself what he would normally have for dinner, only a double portion. When Eames slunk in, wearing a fresh if wrinkled change of clothing, the edges of his hair damp, and his eyes rimmed a little in red, Arthur gave him a sheepish smile.

He couldn't tell whether Eames had been crying or if he was only tired, but either way he knew the teen wouldn't appreciate him mentioning it. He hoped that feeding him and then getting him in bed for a good night's sleep might help.

When Arthur's father had died, he'd barely realized. He had been living with his aunt and uncle, and the man who had gotten his mother pregnant hadn't really been a part of his life, any more than his mother had been. His aunt and uncle were still alive, and Arthur had no idea what it was like to lose someone so close to him. He didn't have the slightest clue as to how to go about offering support, especially seeing as he and Eames were complete strangers to one another. And so he figured that the best he could do, for now at least, was to give Eames a home and a new routine, and hope that this in itself was something of a comfort.

"I hope you're okay with tenderloin and green beans," he offered. He probably should have asked about allergies or dislikes, but it hadn't occurred to him until just this moment.

"Did'ja cook?" Eames queried, his brows wrinkling up in some sort of a frown, something that Arthur didn't know him well enough to read. He hadn't sounded disapproving... exactly. But there had definitely been _something_ in his tone.

"I did," Arthur replied equably. "And I set the table. Which means that technically it'll be your turn do the dishes... but I'll help with them."

Eames blinked once, then twice, then he seemed to give an internal shrug and he settled down at the table, still frowning faintly. Arthur wasn't sure of the cause of this frown, but he assumed it wasn't the food. He might not be the best chef in the world, but he was no slouch, and everything was done to perfection. He tried to ignore the fact that he'd probably been concentrating on the food so hard in order to avoid thinking about the orphaned teen down that hall that he was completely responsible for now, and who he probably ought to be trying to comfort.

It wasn't even that he didn't know how. He honestly doubted that Eames would _accept_ any sort of consolation or condolences from him. As much as he felt that Eames was a stranger come to live in his home, Eames must feel even more as though he was being forced to live with a stranger. By the death of his mother and grandparents, no less.

"How are you feeling?" he asked Eames as they sat down to their meal.

Eames shrugged. "Fine," he grunted, picking up his fork and knife as though he expected an electric shock or something. Arthur wished that he could make this more easy for Eames, for both of them, but he just didn't know where Eames was coming from, what he was thinking at any given moment, or how to respond to it.

"I hope medium rare is all right," Arthur said as Eames cut into his meat. "I can cook it longer if you like."

"S'fine," Eames assured him, but Arthur could see the look on his face no matter how he might try to disguise it as the red juices began flowing onto his plate, and he stood without comment to give Eames' steak a few more minutes.

"Sorry."

Arthur arched a brow. "Don't apologize," he instructed firmly. "It was my fault in not asking you first. One should never make assumptions about how someone else's steak should be cooked."

He probably should have made them chicken or pasta, he thought ruefully as he put the steak in to cook longer. But he'd felt like making Eames something hearty and delicious his first night here. If Eames hadn't clearly been raised eating overcooked beef, he'd surely have been impressed by how perfectly Arthur's tenderloin steaks had come out.

Eames didn't seem to have anything to say to this, shrinking down into his chair and managing to look both younger and older at once. Arthur experienced the urge to give him a hug, and that was so unlike him that he felt that maybe this might actually work out, that his home might actually be the place where Eames should be.

That didn't mean that Arthur hugged him, though. It just didn't seem appropriate.

Once Eames' steak was suitably lacking in pink, they ate. It hadn't remained quite as warm as Arthur would have preferred, what with the unavoidable delay, but it was all delicious anyway. If Arthur did say so himself.

"Thanks," Eames said toward the end of the meal, licking his lips and giving Arthur a smile that was tiny and weak but seemingly sincere. "This was good. I'll... I'll go ahead and do the dishes myself, 'kay?"

"You're welcome," Arthur responded politely, smiling back. He intended to teach Eames how to cook so that they could share that duty, but he didn't figure he'd lay this news on the kid right now. "And we'll see about the dishes."

He ended up doing them with Eames after all, but to his credit he thought that it was more because he didn't want to leave Eames alone doing menial chores on his first night in his new home than that he was worried about him doing it wrong. Arthur did have a dishwasher, of course, but he was kind of particular about how it was loaded.

When he saw how heavy Eames' eyelids were by the time they finished, he didn't even offer dessert. "You should go to bed," he said, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezing lightly, feeling bone and muscle hard underneath his palm and fingers. It wasn't very late yet, but Eames had just flown over from England and if he had been any more exhausted he would probably have been in tears.

"Okay," Eames muttered, ducking his head. He didn't seem to mind the touch, but he didn't lean into it either. Not that Arthur had expected him to.

"Hey," Arthur said impulsively as Eames moved to head toward his room. "Hang on a second."

When Eames turned to give him an inquisitive look, Arthur very carefully reached forward and folded Eames into his arms. Giving him the hug that he hadn't dared to at any point earlier. It just... it just didn't seem right to send Eames off to bed, here in his new home, his mother dead, without at least some simple form of human contact.

Eames stiffened for a moment, then his arms came up to embrace Arthur in turn. A bit hesitantly, holding himself tense and tight in Arthur's arms, but he did hug back.

"Sleep well," Arthur murmured, brushing his mouth against Eames' temple as he spoke the words; not a kiss, really, just another point of contact.

"Thanks," Eames gruffed again, and then he escaped into his room, leaving Arthur with the phantom traces of Eames' body heat warming his own body. 

It had been a while since he'd held someone in his arms like that, Arthur mused as he went about his usual evening pursuits. Despite the fact that he and Eames were virtually strangers, it had been... nice.

He only hoped that it hadn't been too awkward for poor Eames.

***

The next morning Eames seemed better rested and more inclined to interact with Arthur. Unfortunately, Arthur wasn't certain whether this was a good thing or not.

"Good morning," he greeted as Eames entered the kitchen, where he was brewing coffee and wondering if he ought to cook them some breakfast. He usually skipped it himself, but Eames was a growing teen....

Eames looked better than he had the night before. Arthur had heard the shower going, so he wasn't surprised to see that Eames' hair was slicked down against his skull, instead of the wild mess it had been when they had first met. His eyes were still a little red, but now his cheeks were pink with a flush from the hot water and he looked less pale and drawn, more healthy.

"Morning," Eames replied, glancing at Arthur, meeting his eyes only briefly, and biting at his lush lower lip where he was hovering in the entryway to the kitchen. 

"There's coffee," Arthur offered, waving a hand at the machine. "And I bought some tea, but it might not be the right kind."

"I.... Actually," Eames dithered, rubbing his hands on his thighs as though he was nervous, even though he didn't sound it so much, "Have you got a razor I can use? And some shaving cream? I guess I left mine at home-- I mean, back in England."

Arthur quirked a brow. "Are you even old enough to shave?" he couldn't help asking.

Eames frowned in return. "Are _you_?" he shot back with a certain amount of snark. Arthur supposed that it was nice to see that there was life in the boy after all, but he'd rather it wasn't aimed at him. Not to mention the fact that he was a bit overly sensitive about his baby face. Slicking his hair back helped, though not as much as he'd have liked. Normally he wouldn't have bothered with it this time of the morning, but now that Eames was living here he needed to maintain a certain image, even at home. 

Inasmuch as this was possible; which was rapidly coming to seem less likely.

"I've been shaving since you were in diapers," Arthur informed Eames tartly, because it was true. He stepped forward, reaching up to brush his fingertips over the sharp edge of Eames' jaw, carefully ignoring the very distinctive flinch that this movement engendered. "Huh. I guess you might need to shave after all," he allowed, feeling the faintest bristles of whiskers under the pads of his fingers, in contrast with the smooth softness of Eames' skin. "Sure, come with me, and I'll get you what you need."

He did his best to set Eames at his ease, but was aware that he wasn't succeeding very well. Eames kept a wary eye on him as he led him to the master bath and pressed the requested supplies into his hands. Fortunately, he always kept an extra razor on hand in case someone stayed over, even though that hadn't happened in... far too long. It would probably be more accurate to count in years than months.

"Go ahead and keep them both," he instructed. "I'll get us both some more later today. Speaking of which, get ready to go out after breakfast, okay? We're going to go shopping."

"Thanks," Eames gruffed, giving him another of those unreadable looks that Arthur thought he might need to get used to. 

Arthur patted Eames' upper back, once again ignoring the resulting wince. Eventually the two of them would get used to one another. Arthur might not be an overly physical person, but he did tend to touch people he cared about, and he kind of assumed that he would eventually come to care about Eames. He _was_ the son of Arthur's sister, after all. Even if she'd been a half-sibling that he'd only met twice.

"Tea," Eames blurted out unexpectedly, pausing in the bathroom doorway as Arthur made to return to the kitchen. "I... I'll make myself some tea... when I'm done here. Cheers."

Arthur smiled and nodded, and for a brief moment in time it seemed as though they understood one another and as though this might work.

Arthur was too pragmatic and too much a realist to believe that this would last. But for this instant in time it was nice.

***

Of course it didn't last. Arthur should have expected as much, he supposed. Especially seeing as Eames was a teenager who had lost his entire family. As he had already noted, hormones and grief did not make for a stable mixture. And as careful as he might be, Arthur really had no idea how to treat a teenager in mourning.

Honestly, at the beginning of the explosion, he didn't feel that he could have helped his reaction. His response had been perfectly reasonable. It was only when the matter came under discussion that things got worse.

It started when Eames got dressed and met Arthur in the hallway, ready to go shopping as directed. However....

"You are not wearing that," Arthur said flatly, the minute he saw the teeshirt Eames was wearing.

"What's wrong with it?" Eames challenged, chin rising. Maybe that should have been Arthur's first clue that this was a touchy subject, since this was the first time Eames had really been willing to stand up to him about... well, _anything_. On the other hand;

"It has two cartoon characters copulating," Arthur said, boggling that this needed to be explained aloud.

"So?"

He glared at Eames, and Eames glared right back. He looked beautiful, actually, with a flush high in his fine cheekbones and his eyes sparking. But he was still wearing a teeshirt with _cartoon characters fucking_ on the front. That was Arthur's immediate priority.

"Go and change your shirt."

"My Mum got me this shirt," Eames shot back, and, okay, that really should have set off alarms. But Arthur was too busy imagining walking around the store with Eames wearing that shirt.

"I doubt she meant you to wear it in public. It's wildly inappropriate. Go and change."

"I'll put my jacket on over it," Eames said, reaching for the worn denim jacket he'd left hanging in the hall the night before. This was an attempt at compromise, which was commendable, but it wasn't a compromise Arthur was willing to make.

"No," he stated firmly. "You will go into your room and you will put on a different top."

"You're not my father or my mother," Eames snarled, his entire face going red, his hands clenching in fists but remaining at his sides. "You're not--"

"I'm your uncle," Arthur interrupted sharply, not wanting to let this go any further than it already had. "And I'm all the family you have left, so that means that like it or not, I'm in charge of you now."

Eames went white, and Arthur knew he'd overstepped his bounds, but before he could say or do anything to try and repair the damage, Eames hissed, "I hate you!" and then zipped out the front door. Arthur hadn't even been able to move to stop him.

Arthur sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. That could have gone better. At least Eames had taken his jacket with him, though it was too lightweight to offer much protection from the rain that had begun pelting down while they had still been eating breakfast.

Shrugging into his own raincoat, Arthur followed Eames outside. There was no sign of the boy, but this didn't concern him until a good ten minutes had passed.

Arthur did his best to find Eames, he really did. It wasn't as though Eames could have gone far... right? Not in his light clothing and tennis shoes.... Arthur made a circuit around the house, checked the dojo, checked the garage, then he checked inside the house, in case Eames had gone back inside while he'd been slogging around the property. Still no sign of Eames and it was now nearly half an hour since he'd vanished. 

Arthur checked inside the tool shed, even though it was locked. Of course there was nothing. Then he made another circuit around the house. Finally, he began to wonder if Eames had been angry and stubborn enough to try and make his way down to the nearest street and hitchhike. This thought made his stomach twist, and he got in the car quickly and drove down the gravel road, keeping a close eye out the whole time.

It was still raining when he gave up and returned home, and Arthur couldn't have imagined a more pathetic figure than the lanky teenager huddled on the front porch, but he also didn't think he could have felt more relieved.

In hindsight, maybe he shouldn't have locked up when he had left, but it was such a deeply ingrained habit....

"Eames," he shouted, hopping out of the car without bothering to park it in the garage, and pounding over to his nephew. Eames was drenched, completely soaked, and Arthur wondered whether he'd just been wandering around the overgrown paths that cut through the trees behind the house. He certainly hadn't seemed to avoid the rain any.

"Are you all right?" he asked, crouching beside Eames, reaching without thought and dragging Eames to his feet. The boy was pale and visibly shivering, and his light jacket had obviously done nothing to spare him getting wet and less to keep him warm. "Let's get you inside."

Eames didn't reply as Arthur got the door unlocked and got them both into the entryway, and this worried Arthur more than he wanted to admit. Eames was a strong young teenager, so getting wet wasn't going to kill him... right?

"Shoes off."

Eames did try to toe off his tennis shoes, leaning hard against the wall, and when he failed in this, Arthur bent to tug them off himself. As he had suspected, they were completely soaked, as were his socks and his pale feet inside them both.

Once that was accomplished, he peeled off the useless jacket that Eames had been clutching about his narrow torso. 

"Come on," he instructed, not giving Eames a chance to either rebel or obey as he carted him almost physically into his own bedroom. Once there he stripped away the offending shirt and Eames' sodden jeans. Not pausing to give either of them time for embarrassment, he also removed the boy's boxers -- which were also drenched -- and then bundled him into some of the warmest clothes that Arthur owned. 

"Here," he said, pushing Eames into the bed, and wrestling thick socks onto his feet. They were like blocks of ice, and Eames was still shaking. He was also heaving in great gouts of breath, and Arthur was deeply concerned for a moment, until he realized that Eames was crying.

Then he felt bad, but less worried. He took a moment to fetch a towel from the master bath, doing the best he could to dry Eames' hair without getting too rough, but gave up before too long, dropping it and sliding into bed beside Eames. He pulled the covers up over them both before tucking the sobbing teen against his chest and holding on tightly.

"I want my Mum," Eames choked into Arthur's collar, the words dragged out of him, raw and honest. His breath was hard and hot, completely opposite to how cold his body and face still were. His tears were searing against Arthur's neck. "I w-want my Mum."

"I know, sweetheart, I know," Arthur soothed, a lump in his throat. He'd never lost anyone as close as Eames had obviously been to Moira, but he had an imagination and he had empathy. He ran his fingers through Eames' hair, pressing his mouth against Eames' temple again, doing his best to offer Eames reassurance when there was none to be had, trying to share his body heat because that was all he really had to share here. "I know." He wished he could have said something more helpful, but there was really nothing more to be said.

"I hate you," Eames sobbed into his shoulder, clinging to Arthur, absorbing his warmth and hopefully some modicum of comfort. "I hate you, I hate you." His voice scratched out in a hoarse whisper now, his entire frame racked with uncontrolled weeping. 

"It's all right," Arthur crooned, holding him close and petting his scalp with less awkwardness than he had expected. "It's all right."

It wasn't all right, but he was pretty sure that Eames didn't actually hate him either. And even if he did, right now, it would pass. 

It wasn't even noon yet, but Arthur lay in bed and let Eames cry himself out against his chest, clutching the boy protectively to him, and when Eames finally warmed up and drifted off to sleep with only the occasional hiccough of a sob, he remained where he was, fingers threading through damp, unruly brown hair.

After all, this was the least he could do. And in some ways, sadly, it was the most he could do.


	2. Chapter 2

Of course, things weren't just magically okay once this one outburst was over with and out of the way. Arthur was realistic enough that he hadn't expected they would be.

Arthur supposed that he should have crawled out the bed as soon as it was clear that Eames had fallen asleep, but as much as he was a little uncomfortable laying here holding Eames, he was even less comfortable leaving Eames alone. Besides, the boy had a tight grip on his shirt, and even in slumber he didn't seem inclined to let go.

Eames didn't sleep long, thankfully. He stirred after less than half an hour. Arthur could feel his lashes fluttering against his neck, where his collar had been tugged down.

"Mmn?" 

When Eames woke he blinked up at Arthur, confusion melting into something approaching embarrassment. He managed to look both sad and surly at once; the former making it hard to call him on the latter.

"You all right?" Arthur asked, holding himself still, but hopefully not so still that Eames took it as passive rejection.

"Yeah," Eames grunted, scooting back abruptly and rubbing vigorously at his face. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize," Arthur instructed, raising the covers and leaving the bed. "I was worried, though. Please don't run off like that again, all right?"

"Nowhere to run to," Eames grunted, sinking his fingers into his hair and rendering it even more unruly than the rainwater and Arthur's briskly wielded towel had left it. "A bloke can't even run away proper. Not without boosting the car. And I figure you'd finish me if I tried."

"You figured right," Arthur said, trying not to smile, because Eames was serious, wasn't joking. On the other hand, Arthur wasn't going to apologize for anything that kept Eames from running away from home. It was bad enough that Arthur was all Eames had left; he didn't want to think about Eames being on the loose out there with _no one_ taking care of him.

"Get some more rest if you need it," Arthur instructed, and he was almost amused by the look on Eames' face when he realized he was in Arthur's bed, wearing Arthur's clothing. "I'll get us lunch made in an hour or so. Then we'll try making that shopping trip in the afternoon."

He hoped it wasn't a tactical error, bringing up the trip that had inadvertently triggered their fight and Eames' flight, but Eames just nodded, his lower lip extended and his eyes dark. He was avoiding Arthur's gaze again, but Arthur didn't mind. It had to be kind of embarrassing for Eames, everything that had happened in the last couple of hours, and so he left the room, giving the boy some privacy. It was his bedroom but he figured Eames needed the space. 

He was a little surprised when Eames joined him in the kitchen before he was done putting on a new pot of coffee. And he was even more surprised to see that Eames was still wearing Arthur's sweatpants and thick heather sweater, which he'd unceremoniously shoved him into. They fit Eames pretty well, and Arthur had to admit that he looked better in the sweater than Arthur did himself. Maybe he'd let Eames keep it if he liked. It had been a gift from an ex-lover, so Arthur wouldn't miss it.

"Can I make some tea?" Eames asked, rubbing at his eyes like a sleepy child. Arthur felt a clench in his heart, but he'd already held Eames while he cried, less than an hour ago. They both needed to put a little distance between them, he thought.

"You don't have to ask permission," he chided gently. "I bought the tea for you, the mugs wash, and the water is free. This is your home now, so only ask if it's obviously something of mine or if it seems to be the last of anything, all right?"

Arthur supposed Eames would become more comfortable the longer he lived with him. After all, Eames hadn't even been here for twenty-four hours yet. But Arthur had to at least make an effort, and spelling things out for his nephew might help.

"Th-thanks," Eames said, flushing. Arthur took pity on him, turning to watch his coffee finish brewing, while Eames shuffled in on stocking feet and set about making himself a mug of instant tea. Arthur made a mental note to make sure they got whatever brand Eames preferred when they went shopping. And if he had to order it off the internet, from overseas, so be it. Well, without asking he had no way of knowing whether Eames had a favorite or if it might not even be the brand Arthur had gotten, of course, but he kind of assumed that the odds were against that.

He was so deeply lost in thought that he almost missed the gruff, "Sorry," that Eames uttered, where he was standing near the electric kettle.

He turned, expecting to see spilled water or something, ready to grab a dishtowel. Eames was leaning back against the counter, his arms defensively folded, his chin sunk into his chest, something vulnerable around his raw-rimmed grey eyes. They had to sting, Arthur thought with a sympathetic internal wince. But how could Eames _not_ mourn his mother's death?

"Sorry for kicking up a fuss," Eames clarified, mumbling the words, but maintaining eye contact. "I was being an arse."

Arthur blinked for a moment. He hadn't expected a second, more specific apology. He'd have been perfectly happy to let the whole thing go. But now that Eames had put forward the proverbial olive branch, Arthur needed to respond in kind.

"I was an ass about it too," he admitted. "It wasn't right, what I said or how I said it." He wasn't going to apologize for telling Eames to change his shirt, of course, but everything that had come after that had been completely unnecessary on Arthur's part. He was the adult here, and he hadn't acted like it.

"Yeah, s'okay," Eames rumbled uncomfortably, his eyes cutting away and his shoulders hunching. Arthur felt as though he ought to offer him more, but he didn't know what he could offer. He'd held Eames as he cried, he had no words that could magically make everything better, and he'd already apologized.

"We're good," Arthur said, then he asked, "Are we good?" He didn't want to take anything for granted where Eames was concerned.

"We're good," Eames replied, turning to the electric kettle as it popped off. Arthur heard the _"for now"_ loud and clear, but he figured this was enough... for now.

Resisting the urge to tell Eames to be careful not to burn himself, because that would have been unnecessary and unwelcome, Arthur poured himself a cup of coffee and headed for the door.

"I'll be doing some paperwork in the living room," he said. "Let me know if you need anything. You're welcome to join me if you like, as long as you're fairly quiet, but you don't have to, if you don't want."

"I'll just... I'll be in my room," Eames said hoarsely, pouring water into his mug in a billow of steam. Arthur felt as though he was being a crappy guardian, but he had no idea how he could make things better. "Knock when it's time for lunch, okay?"

"Sure." Arthur could give Eames that much. And eventually they'd work things out. Or at least so he devoutly hoped.

***

Arthur ended their afternoon grocery shopping trip with no real idea of what Eames preferred to eat or drink and a weltering sense of frustration.

Getting information out of a teenager who wasn't prepared to share it was like pulling teeth, only more painful and with less results, he thought ruefully. It wasn't that Eames was being a jerk about it; he was just hugely unenthusiastic about everything.

Arthur let him get away with it, because as this morning had clearly shown him, Eames was still grieving over his mother's death. Besides, if he got them something Eames didn't like, it was the boy's own fault. It wasn't as though Arthur hadn't given him plenty of chance to offer his input.

Or maybe Eames just wasn't picky in his eating preferences. Arthur found this the more unlikely scenario, but not impossible. It was probably a bit of culture shock, as well. Arthur hadn't been to England, but he had traveled, and he knew how food varied, culturally. It was possible that Eames just hadn't seen anything he recognized, here on the store shelves in America.

Arthur made sure to purchase a lot of "real" meals. Meats and vegetables, potatoes and bread for starches. Good food for a growing boy. But he also got some prepackaged items, even though he normally eschewed them, in case Eames was stuck at home alone and had to fend for himself. He hadn't forgotten how Eames had reacted to the thought of Arthur cooking, and he figured this meant it was unlikely that Eames knew how to prepare meals from scratch.

Eames was going to _learn_ , of course. But Arthur was leery about trying to spring too much on the boy all at once. He was clearly having a hard enough time dealing with his mother's death. Arthur would have to do his best to ease Eames into his new household and the duties he was expected to hold therein.

He didn't intend to coddle Eames. But as the boy's blow-out this morning had made clear to Arthur, Eames was going to require some gentle handling for a while. Arthur could be careful without being overly indulgent, he was sure of this. He just needed to strike the right balance. Let Eames have a little less responsibility now in a way that wouldn't make it a system shock later, when Arthur expected him to pull his weight more.

"Will you help me put the groceries away?" he requested, once they'd carried the bags in.

"I don't.... I don't know where most of this goes," Eames said helplessly, shifting uncomfortable in the center of the kitchen. He was still wearing Arthur's sweater, even though he'd put on a pair of jeans, and Arthur'd made sure to get his soaked clothing in the washer before they'd left. It was all the more important, knowing how Eames treasured that teeshirt... though Arthur still wasn't going to let him wear it outside the house.

"Put away the non-perishables," Arthur instructed. "You'll be able to see where they go in the pantry, and if it's not obvious, just find a place to put them, and I'll figure out where they ended up when I need them."

Eames huffed, but then mumbled "Pantry," and moved toward the bags, so Arthur figured he was bemused by the fact that this room existed, rather than being irritated that he had to help. Honestly, the pantry was just a glorified closet, Arthur thought, but it was more convenient than keeping everything in cupboards. Cobb had insisted it would be better than always bending over or stretching when he had designed the kitchen and, damn him, he had been right.

"How does pasta primavera sound for dinner tonight?" Arthur asked, hoping he'd get more input toward meals than grocery shopping.

"What's that?" Eames asked, his brow furrowing under the fringe of his bangs. 

"Pasta," Arthur replied with a smirk. Then he relented and continued. "Pasta with vegetables in a light sauce. I can dice a chicken breast or two and add that if you like."

Eames was frowning more deeply, and his lips really were sinful. Arthur forced himself to focus on those stormy dark grey eyes instead. Those were stunning enough. Sparking with intelligence, heavy lidded, with lashes that were not thick, but were surprisingly long.

"Problem?" Arthur prompted, assuming it was something to do with the vegetables, ready to argue the point that as a growing boy, Eames needed them. And so Eames' next sentence completely threw him.

"Grandfather said only women and faggots cook."

Arthur felt the hair at the nape of his neck prickle. But the scorn with which Eames had uttered this sentence seemed to have been mimicked from the old man who had originally spoken it, and the hatred shading his features -- which Eames himself probably wasn't even aware of -- was almost definitely aimed at his grandfather. So Arthur was shocked and appalled, true, but he wasn't angry at Eames. However....

"That is a load of bullshit," he said as mildly as he could. It was true that the very fact that he cooked might have served as validation for this loathsome statement by a horrible old man. On the other hand, Cobb cooked, and aside from Ariadne, Arthur didn't think he knew anyone more straight than Cobb. Not to mention, he'd known a fair amount of chefs from his time in the city who would take exception to this blatantly offensive, overarching statement. Even the ones who _had_ been gay would have been enraged by the terminology. "Anyone with the desire and determination to do so can cook."

Eames was nodding, biting his lower lip, but Arthur wasn't done yet.

"And, Eames," he continued, still remaining calm but speaking more firmly now, "I'm not angry at _you_ , but please never use that word in this house again."

He felt a little like an ogre when Eames blanched and shrank away from him, but it had been a perfectly reasonable request. Even if Arthur hadn't identified as homosexual, hateful language like that had no place in his home. In _their_ home.

"Didn't say I agreed with him," Eames mumbled, ducking his head, his ears flaming even though his cheeks were still a little pale. "Mum said he was fulla shit most of the time.... But she always listened when he talked."

Arthur was mesmerized by the bitter expression on Eames' face. For almost the first time since Eames had moved in with him, he felt like he might understand where Eames was coming from.

Moira had been financially dependent on her father, Arthur was aware of that much, and hadn't been living with him by choice. Arthur didn't know any more details than that, honestly, but looking at Eames now, he thought that he could surmise the rest. Or at least some of the circumstances.

"I'm sure that your mother wanted you to respect your elders. But I'm sure she also wanted you to take away the lessons she taught you and didn't want you to listen to your grandfather when he said hateful things," Arthur said, trying not to sound judgmental of Moira. He didn't care whether he sounded judgmental of Eames' grandfather; just that one statement, filtered through Eames' youthful voice, had been enough to inform Arthur's opinion of the man. He doubted anything further Eames might say would convince him otherwise. Not that he thought Eames might try. There seemed to be no love lost there.

Eames nodded. He was standing there in his stocking feet, still wearing Arthur's sweater, a box of crackers clutched in one hand, and suddenly Arthur wanted to hold him in his arms again, to offer him something real, someone to lean on. 

But it was a passing impulse, and Arthur ignored it. Eames had barely been here one day, no one was crying, and even though they were nephew and uncle, they were still virtual strangers. It would have been far too presumptuous of Arthur to even think that something like this might be welcome.

"Yeah," Eames grunted, and he looked a little less freaked out or fearful.

"Fair warning," Arthur said, trying to lighten his tone a little, "I do intend you to learn to cook. I'm going easy on you for now, but eventually you're going to be doing your share of the chores. That includes meals and cleaning as well as dishes and laundry. And lawn-work if it ever stops raining. The house doesn't keep itself up."

"Yeah, no, okay, that's fine," Eames said, lurching back into motion and beginning to put things away in the pantry. "I did that at home too. I mean back in England."

"It's okay if you still call that home, Eames," Arthur said, putting more perishables in the fridge. "It _was_ your home until one day ago. Eventually you're going to think of this as your home, I'm sure, but in the meantime I won't be offended if you call the place you lived for fifteen years, the place you lived with your mother home."

Eames' shoulders were hunched, but he nodded. "It's not so much that," he said, so low Arthur could barely make out the words, "As it is me trying to get myself used to the idea."

"That's all right too," Arthur replied, reaching over and squeezing Eames' shoulder lightly. And this time Eames didn't flinch away.

After this, they finished putting the groceries away together in silence, but Arthur liked to think it was a companionable silence.

***

"You're in charge of your own laundry," Arthur informed Eames over dinner, figuring the earlier they talked about domestic responsibilities the better. "Which means that if you run out of clean clothes, that's your problem. But it also means I won't know if you need _new_ clothes. So you have to let me know. I'm going to assume right now that we need to get you a few things, so plan to go out for clothes, shoes, and other necessities tomorrow, all right?"

"What I've got is plenty," Eames protested, scowling fiercely. At least he was eating everything on his plate; Arthur had been half afraid he would avoid the vegetables in favor of the pasta and chicken. He had no idea how Moira had fed her son. Eames was a little scrawny, but that might just be because he was fifteen and was still growing into his height. All Arthur could be sure of was that he was going to make sure that Eames ate right from here on out.

"No, it's not," Arthur replied firmly. "Three bags is not enough when it's everything that you own. I intend to beef up your wardrobe, you need heavier shoes, and whatever else you want. Do you have a hobby? Do you play a sport or an instrument? Do you collect anything? What about books you want to own?"

Eames was staring at him, mouth hanging open slightly, and it should have looked silly, but instead it just looked sexy. Arthur mentally castigated himself for this thought, even as he waited for Eames to answer what he could admit had been a barrage of questions.

"I draw," Eames finally replied gruffly, reluctantly. He ducked his head and poked a piece of chicken a little viciously. "And paint... sometimes.... But oils and canvases are expensive and there's no point in wasting time or money on something so useless."

Arthur felt his mouth curling down at the corners. He was pretty sure that had been a quote directly from the mouth of Eames' grandfather that he had just heard. It certainly hadn't been Moira; Arthur still had a small painting of the Thames at sunrise that she had sent him, framed and hanging in his living room. It showed no small amount of talent, and evidently her son had inherited said talent.

"Art is never useless," he said, trying to sound sure but not sharp. Eames glanced up at him, looking startled again. "And I have to admit that I'd love to hang something on my walls that was done by someone I know, instead of being something I purchased. Unless you like to keep it private, because that's okay too. But not only is art important in its own right, but it's a good way to express your emotions, and to communicate with others. I'd love to see anything you drew or painted, if you'd be willing to share it with me."

"I'm not good enough for walls," Eames protested, and Arthur was afraid he'd pushed a little too hard, but it was too late now to take it back.

"I think you should let me be the judge of that," he said, as gently as he could without making it sound as though he was humoring Eames in some way. Because he wasn't. "Since they're my walls." He fixed Eames with a speculative look. "I'd be honest about it. They're my walls, after all. But if you're willing to show me, I'd love a look. And I'll certainly buy you any supplies you need."

Eames looked torn between delight and alarm, and he definitely looked as though he regretted ever mentioning his art. "I.... Some sketchbooks and pencils, maybe," he said, biting his lower lip anxiously. "Honestly, oils are really expensive. Those can wait."

"We'll see," Arthur said, because he suspected Eames was right. He wasn't hurting for money, but he didn't have it to blow in thousands of impulse dollars of purchase, either. Well, yes, actually he _did_ , but he suspected Eames would freak out even more if Arthur made such a generous gesture. Maybe Ariadne had some old tubes she could give him or something, just to start with. 

It occurred to him that Eames might not be aware of his financial situation, and he remembered that Moira had been so destitute that she'd had to move in with her father, who hadn't been exactly swimming in wealth either. "I've got enough income to support us both, just so you know," he informed Eames, because he felt strongly that Eames needed to know this. "And that means intellectual needs as well as physical needs. I consider them both to be equally vital."

Eames nodded, looking uncomfortable, and turned his attention back to his dinner. Letting it go, Arthur did the same for a short time. But then he thought of something. 

"So, is there anything else in particular?" he asked, then clarified. "Is there anything else that you want, that your grandfather wouldn't let you have? Try me; you might be surprised. I might say yes."

Now Eames was staring at him again. Arthur gave him a small smile, trying for conspiratorial. He didn't know whether he succeed or not, but Eames did seem to relax a little and actually consider his offer.

"Um, well, it's kind of...." Eames fiddled with his fork, mostly done eating, it looked like. "Stupid.... But...."

"Go ahead," Arthur prompted. "Look, I know it's not easy for you to move into a strange house with a strange man in it." He paused, grinning more widely at the flash of humor in Eames' face when he glanced up at this last statement. "Okay, I didn't mean that the way it sounded, even if it's true. But my point was, whatever I can do to help you feel more at home, I want to have a chance to consider it. So just tell me."

"You have dimples," Eames said wonderingly, then he blushed. "I just... I hadn't seen you smile before. Not _really_ smile."

Arthur shook his head, and he was still smiling, though not as widely now. "Don't try to change the subject."

"I'm not," Eames said earnestly. "It just took me by surprise, is all. Mum doesn't have dimples. Did-didn't." He bit his lower lip and looked away, blinking rapidly for a moment.

Arthur waited silently for Eames to pull himself back together, mostly because he didn't know what to say; had no way to make this better. 

Before too much time had passed, Eames drew in a short breath and continued. "Well, it's just that... Mum used to burn candles that smelled like berries or vanilla, before we moved in with grandfather. Back when we had our own place. But he said they were a fire hazard. And the time I bought one with my pocket money, he told me scented candles were for fag-- Uh... for that word I'm not supposed to say."

"Huh." Arthur blinked. He had a strong feeling he was going to get tired of hearing about what Eames' grandfather had said. "I don't see anything wrong with getting a few," he said slowly, thinking it over. "As long as you get some glass holders and don't leave them unsupervised. You know how to be safe with them, right?"

"Of course," Eames replied immediately, not offended, just certain. "I'm no pyro. And you don't need to humor me. I'd be perfectly fine without."

"I'm not trying to humor you," Arthur explained patiently. "I'm trying to do what I can to help you feel at home here, so that you feel as though it's your home as well as mine. Even if it's only in your room, though you're welcome to set candles anywhere in the house that you like."

"And it won't... the smell won't bother you?" Eames asked hesitantly.

"No," Arthur answered. "I like it, honestly. I just don't usually bother." There was also the fact that scented candles reminded him of sex, which he hadn't had in quite a while, but he wasn't about to tell Eames that. "Incense is all right too. I use that sometimes when I meditate."

"You meditate?"

This question was evidently surprised out of Eames, and Arthur smiled again, though not as broadly as before. "I can teach you how," he said. "Take you to the dojo, show you some self defense moves, teach you how to meditate, start you on a weight lifting regime, if that sounds like something you might be interested in. I also jog around the property most mornings, if the weather isn't too nasty. That's part of why I want to get you more sturdy shoes; I thought you might like to join me,"

Eames was blinking at this glut of information, his mouth rounded in a sensual circle. His lips really were sinful, and he was so pretty.... The man had clearly been a world class asshole, but Arthur could sort of see why Eames' grandfather had ridden him so hard. If he was that homophobic, his grandson's beauty must have made him uncomfortable.

Not that Arthur had any clue as to Eames' orientation, of course, and he wasn't about to make any guesses. But it would be an awful shame if lips that looked like that never ended up wrapped around a cock....

Flustered and furious with himself for allowing this thought to cross his mind, Arthur covered it by rising and taking both their plates over to the sink.

"Let me know, all right?" he said. "Your shoes are too light for jogging, but we'll get you a new pair tomorrow."

"They're trainers," Eames protested, grabbing the utensils and following. "They're made for running."

"On asphalt," Arthur said, shaking his head. "We're talking about muddy paths in the woods, or down the gravel drive and back."

"Have you ever turned an ankle?" Eames asked, sounding honestly curious, and Arthur realized with an internal start that they were having an actual conversation. It was such a huge improvement on the awkward silence of the evening before. It made him feel a sort of warmth inside. He hoped that Eames felt it too, whether he recognized the cause or not.

"I actually did," he said, allowing the happiness welling up in him to color his voice as amusement at his own expense. Normally he wasn't this open with someone he barely knew, but Eames was _family_. And they'd be living together for at least three more years, until Arthur sent Eames off to college. "Only the second time I did the course, though. And I've flattened the path considerably since then."

Eames nodded, looking thoughtful. "I could... I could do it in my trainers tomorrow morning," he offered. "Then get new shoes in the afternoon, a pair for running and a pair for everyday?"

He sounded hesitant toward the end, so Arthur hurried to reassure him. "That sounds like a plan. Are you prepared to wake up at six, though? That's when I usually go."

Eames pulled a face, but then nodded. "Yeah, I can do that. Sounds like... fun."

The last word went up, almost like a question, but not quite. Arthur smiled and reached over to squeezed Eames' shoulder, the only touch he would allow himself. "It's a date."

He only thought after the fact how that had sounded, but it was too late once the words were out to take them back. At least Eames didn't seem to mind.

***

Things were going so smoothly that Arthur had settled a little into complacency before he returned to work. He'd taken a week off for bereavement, and Mr. Saito had insisted he have a second week of paid leave, in order to care for his nephew and see him fully settled. 

Arthur appreciate this, but he really couldn't stay away longer than two weeks. He didn't mind the time off, and the fact that it was paid was nice, but he had things that needed to be done, that no one else could do. Or at least, not without completely fucking them up. So after two weeks, Arthur went back to work.

It would have been nice if he could have shipped Eames off to school while he was gone during the day, but he'd already discussed things with the principal of the local high school, and they'd both agree that with less than two months left before graduation, it would be better to wait until the start of the new school year. Arthur had no clue if this was standard procedure, but Yusuf was a good man and something of a friend of Arthur's, he was easy going, and he'd lost his father to cancer when he'd been only a little older than Eames, so Arthur counted him as something of an authority on the matter.

Before heading back to work, Arthur had given serious consideration to asking Ariadne to come and stay with Eames during the day. Not because he didn't trust Eames, but because he hated leaving him at home alone. But even if she was self employed, Ariadne _did_ have a job, and Arthur was pretty sure Eames would have taken it as Arthur lacking faith in his ability to take care of himself and he'd have been offended or, even worse, hurt. 

So Arthur let that idea go and reluctantly left after their morning jog and after supervising as Eames fixed them both breakfast.

He'd emailed Eames three times during the morning, called his new cell phone while on his lunch break, and then emailed twice more during the afternoon. Each time Eames had replied and seemed all right. Arthur felt like he was being overly protective and was telling himself during the drive home that he needed to back off a little.... So, of course, reality had to go and prove him wrong the moment he walked in the door.

Well, actually, it wasn't until he'd made his way into the kitchen, and found Eames curled in a corner of the cupboards, below the coffee maker, sobbing into his knees that Arthur actually knew something was wrong. But the moment that he saw it, he felt he should have been expecting it.

There was broken ceramics on the floor but Arthur didn't see any blood. This didn't stop his stomach plunging or his hands from shaking and his voice from coming out sharp and urgent as he somehow crossed the room without realizing and went to his knees beside Eames.

"Eames, are you hurt? Did you cut yourself?"

Eames shook his head without uncoiling from the little ball of misery he was curled in. At least he was responding, Arthur told himself. Still....

"Hey, come on," Arthur urged, prying at the boy's tense limbs, trying to get him out of his defensive huddle in order to check him for damage. "You didn't hurt yourself?"

"N-no," Eames managed to get out. Moving with a suddenness that took Arthur by surprise, Eames slammed into his chest, clutching at his shirt. Arthur wrapped his arms around Eames, willing to give up checking him for physical damage, realizing that this was entirely emotional. And probably long overdue.

"It's okay," he assured Eames, settling on the floor and doing his best to squeeze in close, to tug Eames into his lap, rubbing at his back in what he hoped was a soothing way. "It's okay. You're okay."

"Sorry, sorry," Eames choked out, sobbing into Arthur's neck. Arthur wrapped his arms around Eames, doing his best to him together as he shattered like the ceramic bowl on the floor.

It was just a bowl, like seven others in the cupboard, and it wasn't as though Arthur hadn't broken plates or mugs himself. But he understood why it had set Eames off, and he really wished he'd been able to take longer off of work. He didn't know if it would have helped, but he was feeling a huge stab of guilt, right through the center of his heart, over having had to leave Eames home alone all day. If nothing else, he should have taken a half day. This was easy to see in retrospect.

"It's okay, it's just a bowl," he assured Eames, even though he knew that wasn't the issue here. He wasn't sure Eames knew that, though, and he wanted to offer anything he could to try to comfort the boy. "It's all right, Eames. I'm here now. I'm home safely. You're okay too."

Of course, Eames _wasn't_ okay. His mother was dead, and he'd had all day to dwell on that fact, alone, without Arthur there to offer him any distractions. It might well have been Arthur's drive home that had set Eames off, he mused. In his last email to Eames he'd mentioned it, and Moira had been killed in a car accident. He could all too easily imagine Eames sitting here, thinking about Arthur in a car, dread growing, fear and grief rising up to overwhelm him....

Eames wept into Arthur's shoulder, clinging to him tightly enough to hurt, and Arthur held Eames just as closely in return. He couldn't do anything else right now, no matter how he desperately wished otherwise, but at least he could do this.

"I'm sorry," he murmured in Eames' ear, not sure the boy even heard him, and held on as the storm battered them both. He couldn't do anything more, so he did what he could and hoped that it might be enough.

***

Arthur hadn't wanted to do it, but he didn't feel he was left with much of a choice. So he swallowed his pride, pushed down his better judgment... and called Cobb.

"Hey, Arthur, how's it going?" Cobb asked, and to his credit it sounded as though he honestly cared about the potential answer.

"It's going," Arthur replied. He was shut in his bedroom. Eames had gone to bed early with a pounding headache that he couldn't hide, even though he had tried, and Arthur really hoped he was asleep by now and not crying more.

"Owch. That bad?"

"Well, his mother just died," Arthur said, sighing and sitting back on his bed, running his free hand through his hair. "It hasn't even been a month yet."

"And that's why you're calling me," Cobb prompted. He was turned inward most of the time, but that didn't mean that he missed everything. He was still pretty sharp... when he chose to be.

"I'm not going to ask how you dealt with Mal's death," Arthur said, "Because I know you haven't."

"Hey," Cobb snapped, but when he didn't follow this up with any further protest, Arthur continued. 

"How are the kids handing it? I mean.... I'm lost here, Cobb. I need some help, _any_ help that you can give me."

"I don't...." Cobb didn't sound any more certain than Arthur felt. "It's hard to say. And they're both younger than your Eames. James doesn't even understand what death is yet; he keeps asking where Mom is. I don't know... I don't really know how to explain so that he gets it. Phillipa. Well, she's doing her best to take care of everyone... when she's not angry at me."

"Really?"

"Yeah." Cobb sounded tired and sad. "Maybe for being alive when Mal isn't, maybe for not being able to make everything better, maybe for all that time I spent focusing on my own pain instead of caring for my children the way I should have been.... It never lasts long, but anger is definitely a part of her grieving process."

"Has she ever said she hated you?" Arthur asked, even though it was pretty invasive of him. Still, he was curious, and Cobb was unusually approachable on the subject right now. Besides, it wasn't as though Arthur was asking out of mere curiosity.

"No," Cobb replied. "But she's my daughter, not a nephew who barely knows you. Did Eames really?"

"I don't think he meant it," Arthur said, sighing.

"No, of course he didn't. But there's so much emotion in him, so much rage at the universe for the loss of his mother, that he needs to focus it somewhere. I'd venture to say that you were a convenient target."

"When did you get so insightful?" Arthur asked in honest surprise.

Instead of being offended, Cobb just laughed. "Once I realized what a shitty father I was being, I started reading all the books on grief and loss I could get my hands on. What can I say; some of it stuck."

"Oh. Okay. Well.... Any advice?"

"Just. Be there for him, but don't push. You're doing that already?"

"Yeah, but it's hard to know when to push and when to back off. He's not only grieving, but he's _fifteen_."

"True, that does make it tougher." Arthur could see Cobb grimacing in his mind's eye. "Try to figure out a constructive way for him to express his feelings, and see if you can't get him to share that with you somehow. In a way that's not too invasive, of course."

"I've already bought him art supplies and asked to see what he comes up with."

"Huh." Cobb sounded moderately impressed. "Well, what do you need my advice for, Arthur? It sounds like you're doing just fine."

Arthur heaved a huge sigh, feeling weariness crush down on him. Cobb hadn't always been the best friend, but right now Arthur missed him. "Maybe we could--"

"No."

"You don't even know what I was going to say!" he said indignantly.

"Yes, I do. And it would be a bad idea. Eames is fifteen. Phillipa is five and James is only three. Eames would either feel as though he was being asked to babysit or as though he was the butt of some bizarre joke. And Phillipa would feel like she had to take care of him, which would be awkward for both of them."

Arthur grimaced. "You're right. Sorry. I didn't think it through. I just...."

"It's not that I don't want to help," Cobb said regretfully. "I just don't think I _can_. I'm still struggling with my own kids. With my own loss."

"I'm sorry--" Arthur said immediately, but Cobb interrupted him again.

"No, no, I wasn't trying to imply anything or make you feel guilty, Arthur. I just meant.... I'm flattered that you called me, but I'm too much of a mess to offer you good advice."

"You did give me some," Arthur informed him. "Thanks for that. And for... listening."

"You'll do fine," Cobb said, and he sounded as though he believed it. Arthur wished he could be so sure. "Just hang in there."

"Thanks. You too," Arthur had the presence of mind to add. They said their goodbyes and Arthur hung up. Then he sat and stared at his door for a long time, wishing that he could just go to Eames' room and hold him.... 

But he couldn't. Even after two weeks and two emotional meltdowns, he just didn't feel as though he had the right. Not yet. Not until he could be sure that Eames would welcome it.


	3. Chapter 3

To say that Arthur was surprised when Eames crawled into his bed that night would have been overstating the matter. In point of fact, Arthur didn't really wake when Eames slipped under the covers. He roused just enough to realize what had happened, but not enough to really process it.

He only woke enough to feel something like sleepy startlement when Eames wriggled in closer to settle against his side, fingers sinking into the material of the worn teeshirt he was wearing as pajamas, a warm cheek pressing against his shoulder.

Without quite meaning to, Arthur rolled toward Eames, and that was when Eames really curled into him and got settled against his chest. 

This actually woke Arthur the rest of the way, because he couldn't remember the last time he'd been in bed with another warm body. At least he wouldn't be able to recall without giving it more consideration than he intended to, when most of his brain was occupied with analyzing and dealing with this unexpected new situation with Eames.

It was a little bit like when he had held Eames while he'd cried himself to sleep back the first day he had been here, Arthur supposed. But mostly it was completely different.

"Eames, are you all right?" he whispered, because he wouldn't have felt as though he was doing his part as Eames' guardian if he didn't at least ask. Almost of their own volition, his arms had come around Eames, holding the boy against him, so it wasn't as though he was going to kick Eames out if he didn't get an answer he liked.

"Lonely," Eames whispered back, and he sounded it, but he didn't sound as though he was crying. Of course, he _had_ been, earlier in the day. So even though he seemed to be mostly okay, right now, Arthur was more than fine with letting him stay.

"Okay," he murmured, pulling Eames in a little closer and pressing a kiss to his brow. Eames' hair tickled his nose but was softer than it looked, and Arthur allowed himself to rest his cheek against the crown of Eames' head as he settled into the warmth and scent of his nephew's body.

He'd expected to fall back asleep quickly, and he did lay there drowsing, but the fact of Eames cuddling close and breathing against his collarbone was too stimulating. Instead of clinging to his shirt, Eames looped an arm around him, fingers curling near the small of his back. This was closer to anyone than Arthur had been in quite a while, and maybe that was what was keeping him from drifting off.

It wasn't that Arthur was deliberately celibate. But he tended to be picky, and so he didn't get laid as often as he'd have liked. And regular lovers had been fewer and further between. So cuddling in bed with someone wasn't completely new to him -- of course it wasn't -- but it wasn't anything he'd done any time recently.

Eames smelled good, which was more than a little unexpected considering that he was a teenage male, Arthur thought muzzily. He seemed to recall the need to bathe often when he'd been fifteen... but then, he'd just taken up running. Besides which, he'd discovered that the shower stall had been a good place to jerk off; the cascading water useful to both hide any incriminating sounds and wash away any evidence.

He wondered, in that uncensored mindset that came over him when he was half asleep, whether Eames masturbated. He was that age... but his mother had been killed in a car accident only half a month ago. Arthur grimaced, tugging Eames a little closer to him and holding him more tightly. He didn't know Moira enough to miss her, but he was aware that there was now a hole in his life where she had been, and, even worse, there was a huge gaping wound in Eames' existence that nothing could ever fill.

For one intense moment he almost wanted to cry. Not for himself. Not for Moira. He wanted to cry for Eames. 

But the feeling passed, and he settled for clutching Eames to his chest and promising himself that he would keep the two of them safe. He couldn't bring back Eames' mother, but he could do everything in his power to make sure that both he and Eames remained healthy and whole.

It had only been two weeks, but already it was hard for Arthur to imagine a future without Eames. He had no trouble remembering the past, when he had lived alone. But now he was used to having Eames here, living with him, sharing the chores, someone to talk to when he felt like it, as long as Eames felt like it as well. It was just... it was nice, and it was something Arthur had very quickly and easily grown accustomed to.

Right now, here in his bed, Eames smelled of vanilla and beeswax, Arthur thought lazily. That was hardly surprising, since he'd gotten the boy some scented candles within his first week here. Underneath it was the smell of clean flesh, the rich musk of masculinity, and a hint of fresh sweat. Eames smelled good enough to devour, and that was such a wrong thought to have about his nephew, his _nephew_ , that it snapped Arthur into full wakefulness.

He opened his eyes, staring at the red lights of his alarm clock over Eames' head. It was close to midnight, so he must have only just fallen asleep when Eames had joined him.

Arthur didn't begrudge Eames the comfort of his presence, the warmth of his embrace, and he was glad that Eames had been willing to come to him, when Arthur had been hesitant to go to Eames....

But it might have freaked him out less if he hadn't been getting a little hard in his pajama bottoms.

That was... that was _unacceptable_. Eames was his nephew, the son of Arthur's sister! Granted, they'd been half siblings. And Arthur had never met Eames before two weeks ago. But that didn't signify. They were blood. It was entirely inappropriate for Arthur to be becoming aroused by Eames' body heat, the solid feel of him in Arthur's arms and pressing against his chest, the pleasant smell of him....

It had just been too long since he'd last gotten laid, Arthur told himself, trying desperately to quell his throbbing dick. He couldn't chase Eames out of his bed now. Eames would never understand why and he'd feel rejected and hurt in a way that Arthur wouldn't be able to make right. As awkward as this was for him, it was preferable to destroying his nephew's growing sense of safety and home. It had taken Arthur two weeks to even _begin_ to gain Eames' trust. He couldn't risk doing anything to jeopardize that.

Arthur sighed heavily, and Eames' arm tightened around him, even though he was pretty sure that the boy was asleep already. There was also the fact that he was Eames' guardian, was responsible for the boy. Not to mention that Eames was only fifteen, half the age Arthur was. All of this put together added up to Eames being one hundred percent off limits, and that wasn't even a fact that Arthur ought to have to dwell on. It ought to just _be_.

Eames mumbled and snuggled in closer to Arthur. Arthur resigned himself to being half erect and completely awake... but the heat radiating off of Eames seemed to sooth his senses, and before he quite realized, he was drifting back to sleep.

This had to be absolutely the strangest situations he had ever been in, the thought crossed his mind as he tumbled into slumber. But he really was glad Eames had come to him seeking comfort. 

That fact, at least, made all of this just a little less unacceptable on Arthur's part.

***

Once the thought had crossed his mind, it was as though Arthur couldn't stop thinking about Eames and masturbation. It wasn't as though he was a pervert.... Or, at least, he hadn't thought he was one. And yet it was as if a switch had been flipped and his mind was filled with things that it really had no place dwelling on.

He had seen Eames naked, true but it had only been for a few seconds, and he'd been a little distracted, trying to prevent him from getting hypothermia. Still, he knew that Eames was uncut, which kind of followed, since he was from England.

Arthur hadn't had many chances to play with uncut dicks, growing up on the West Coast as he had done. Eames had been born and raised in England, so naturally enough....

But Arthur really shouldn't be thinking about Eames and what he might look like in the shower. His dick and how he might touch it, hold it, rub it. Those were off-limits images and he shouldn't be allowing them into his head. Obviously there was something seriously wrong with him. Maybe it had been too long since he'd had sex.

Actually, he could state with complete certainty that it had been far too long since he'd last had sex. That much was a hard and true fact. Maybe he ought to be giving his physical needs a bit more attention, if such impure thoughts about his nephew were stirring.

It was probably time for him to contact Ariadne.

***

"So, how is Eames doing?" Ariadne asked, peeling a wrapper off her straw and sticking it in her soda. She and Arthur were meeting in the local sandwich shop during his lunch hour, and he had only realized when he had seen her how much he had missed her.

"He's doing good," Arthur replied, and he was pleased to be able to speak these words with complete honesty. He had taken three half-days after Eames' melt down his first day back at work, and by the end of the third day, Eames had told him he was fine and didn't need to be coddled. So Arthur had gone back to working full time, and Eames had seemed to be all right. 

At least, he was as far as Arthur could tell. He only hoped that Eames wasn't faking it for his sake. He hadn't crawled into Arthur's bed any night since the one, so Arthur took that as a good sign, at least. Even if he kind of missed it.... But that was why he was sitting here talking to Ariadne. Aside from the fact that he had missed her, of course.

"You guys are getting along all right?" Ariadne pressed, reaching across the table and stealing one of Arthur's kettle chips. 

"For the most part," Arthur nodded. "He goes running with me every morning. I've started training him in self defense and he's doing some light weight lifting... why are you laughing?"

Ariadne choked, waving a hand, her eyes shining with humor. "Oh my God, Arthur, what are you doing; making sure he can withstand a zombie invasion?"

"I'm a little disturbed that your brain immediately went to zombies," Arthur said dryly, but he couldn't help smiling a little. It wasn't as though he could say he was surprised by this, he knew her too well by now. "He's a teenage boy, Ariadne. He's got a lot of energy to burn off. I've got to give him ways to burn it off constructively."

Ariadne rolled her eyes but didn't argue the point. "All right, so, what else?"

"He's learning to cook and clean, he does his share of the laundry and dishes-- Stop that!"

Ariadne hooted with laughter. "Oh my God, Arthur, _really_?"

"He does other things," Arthur said defensively. "He's been getting into my book collection and my movie collection. I let him use the desktop computer. He sketches." He paused, frowning slightly. "Speaking of which, do you have any oils or canvases that you can spare?"

Ariadne quirked a brow. "Maybe. Probably not enough to really get him started, though," she said ruefully.

Arthur grimaced. "Well, it was worth asking. He'd freak out if I bought him everything he needed all in one go. Not that I even _know_ what he'd need...."

"I could make a list," Ariadne offered. "And give you a few of my old things, so that you can mix in the new ones and pretend it all comes from me. Or at least most of it."

"That would be wonderful," Arthur enthused. "Thanks, Ariadne. That's above and beyond."

Ariadne waved it off as though it was no big deal, and to her it wasn't, which was part of what made her so amazing. "Have you seen any of his art?" she asked, then stuffed her sandwich in her mouth and taking a huge bite.

Arthur shook his head. "Not yet. I asked... back before I got him his sketchbook. I haven't wanted to push since then."

"You should ask again," Ariadne advised, once she had chewed and swallowed her mouthful. "In as non-pushy a way as you can manage."

Arthur nodded in response to this only moderately helpful advice and then turned his attention to his own neglected food. It wasn't that he didn't know she was right; he just didn't know how to go about asking in a non-pushy way.

"How is he dealing with his mother's death?" Ariadne asked tentatively.

"There's been a few melt-downs," Arthur replied candidly, seeing no reason not to tell her. He could use any support and understanding she was willing to offer. "It's tough on him. He lost his mother and grandparents, and then his home. He had to move to a new country and he's had only me for company since then.... So, speaking of that, did you want to come and meet him?"

He thought he had worked that in there smoothly enough, but Ariadne gave him a glance that he could only interpret as being slightly suspicious. 

"I'd love to, Arthur," she replied, and it did sound genuine. "But...."

"But?" he asked blankly.

"But why do you want me to meet him?" she asked.

Arthur blinked. "Because you're my closest friend, and he's my nephew."

"And?"

"And what?" Arthur stared at her. "What more is there?"

"That's what I'm wondering," Ariadne said.

"Well...." Arthur gave in, because Ariadne was too smart for his own good, and if he didn't bring it up now she'd give him hell when he brought it up later. "I was kind of hoping that if... _if_ you guys hit it off, you might be willing to watch him for me... once in a while. When I go out."

"When you go out for what?" Ariadne asked, voicing the one question he hadn't wanted to hear from her.

"To meet someone," he mumbled, taking a drink of water.

"To meet who?" she asked curiously, eyes widening.

"Someone," he said, knowing he sounded snappish, but unable to help himself. "I don't know yet."

Ariadne stared at him for a long moment before understanding dawned, and then her lips pursed in a moue of distaste. "Euw! Arthur!" she exclaimed. "You're asking me to babysit your nephew while you go out and get laid?"

"You make it sound so sleazy," he said miserably, slumping. Then he drew himself together, straightened his back, and said as firmly as he could manage, "It's not as though I can bring anyone home now, you know."

"And a man has needs," Ariadne snarked, but she didn't sound _completely_ unsympathetic. "Well... I _do_ want to meet Eames. And if we hit it off, I wouldn't mind. But who's to say whether he'll like me or not."

"I can't imagine anyone not liking you," Arthur protested. "Don't be ridiculous."

Ariadne grinned. "You're lucky you're so charming, Arthur. It lets you get away with things like asking me to watch your nephew while you go out for a one-night stand, before I've even met him."

"That's not what I--" Arthur sputtered, and seriously, Ariadne was the only person on the face of the Earth who could reduce him to incoherency. It was a good thing they didn't work together any longer, hadn't in years, or his coworkers would never respect him.

"I know, I know," Ariadne soothed, very obviously taking pity on him at the same time she was grinning wickedly. "And just let me know when you want me to come over. My calendar is pretty free this weekend, up until Tuesday afternoon. "

"How about tonight?" Arthur prompted. "I don't like to spring surprises on Eames, but I think it might be preferable to giving him too long to think about it and get himself worked up. That hasn't gone so well for me in the past."

Ariadne gave him another inordinately suspicious look. "You'll tell him _before_ I show up at the door, though, right?"

"Of course," Arthur scoffed. "I'll email him about an hour before I head out, and if you don't mind, you could show up about an hour after that?"

Ariadne nodded. "Okay. That sounds good. And, Arthur?"

"Yeah?"

"I really am looking forward to meeting him. You know that, right?"

"You won't be disappointed," he promised, even though, thinking back to Eames' wary silence when they had first met, he couldn't be absolutely sure it would go smoothly.

"If you like him, so will I."

And for Ariadne, it really was that simple.

***

"I really like him."

Arthur grinned at Ariadne. "I knew you would."

"Yeah, yeah," she grumbled, punching him lightly in the shoulder. "He's sweet. Kind of shy, but that's hardly surprising."

"He's just quiet," Arthur told her. They were standing outside the house, next to Ariadne's car. Inside the house, Eames probably knew that they were talking about him, but Arthur didn't think it would be a huge problem. After all, it wasn't as though they were saying anything uncomplimentary.

"I don't think he's naturally quiet," Ariadne argued. "He's been here less than a month. I'm sure he's still getting settled in."

"And he's still mourning his mother's death," Arthur added.

Ariadne grimaced. "Definitely. He seemed a little nervous around me. I'm not sure if it was because I was a stranger, because I'm your friend, because I'm female, or all of the above."

"I'm going with option D," Arthur murmured, glancing toward the house. Eames was in the living room, and Arthur really ought to get back in there, but he needed to see Ariadne off first. And he somehow felt it was important to get her opinion on his nephew.

"Well, but he did have a mother and grandmother, right?"

"Step-grandmother, but yeah. Both of them were a lot older than you."

Ariadne nodded, her expression serious. "So he might not know how to relate well to a female my age. Really, though, I think you need to worry more about him having daddy issues," she informed him seriously. "I'm a little concerned with how fixated on you he already is. Like you're the center of his world. But only a little bit concerned."

Arthur frowned. This was part of why he had asked Ariadne over. He needed someone else's opinion, someone outside the situation, someone he trusted, someone as smart and insightful as Ariadne was. 

"Right now I kind of _am_ all he has," he protested mildly. "He's not in school yet, he has no friends. You're the first person he's seen since he came to America, outside of strangers at the store."

Ariadne was nodding. "All of that is true," she allowed. "But I think there's more to it than that. And I'm not saying it's a bad thing, the way he looks to you. Just don't let him become too dependent on you. And, Arthur?"

"Yeah?"

"Never, never let him down," she said, hard and flat.

Arthur's eyes widened. "I wasn't planning on it," he said stiffly, not sure whether he should be offended or not. 

Ariadne's eyes were sharp, focused, and Arthur wondered if that was the way he looked at his coworkers and other people who might attempt to cross him. He hoped he had never looked at Eames the way Ariadne was looking at him.

"Just be careful with him, okay?" Ariadne said after a moment. Then she unexpectedly smiled. "I'd like to spend more time with him, so if you want to discuss me doing some babysitting, we can do that later."

"Just stop calling it that," Arthur requested. "If he ever heard, he'd be pissed."

"Or hurt." Ariadne nodded crisply. "All right. I'll call it 'rescuing' him from your exclusive company. Email or call me and we'll make plans." She smiled, looking fond. "Good-night, Arthur. Thanks for the invite and the meal."

"Thanks for coming," he said, holding the car door open as she slid into the driver's seat, then closing it for her. He waved as she headed off down the gravel drive, and then turned to go back into the house. He'd left Eames on his own long enough. Too long.

Honestly, he had no idea what Ariadne was talking about. Not the daddy issues. Those, he was well aware of. But he was never going to do anything to let Eames down.

Never.

***

The next day was Saturday so Arthur was home, but that didn't mean he didn't have work to do. Afternoon rolled around and saw Eames in the kitchen making them lunch while Arthur remained sitting on the sofa with his laptop. 

It wasn't as though he'd been banished... but he knew that Eames preferred to do things alone when he didn't need help; and sometimes, regrettably, when he did. So Arthur was letting Eames do his thing, making them lunch, and Eames had said he'd bring out the plates when he was done.

Arthur didn't mind, considering that he had some paperwork to make his way through. That was why he was okay with them eating in the living room, instead of insisting they go into the kitchen.

He could hear Eames banging around a bit, could smell searing butter, but his fire alarm remained silent and there were no unpleasant scents or swearing, so he figured all was going well enough. Eames hadn't exactly taken to cooking as though he had a gift for it, but he was passable. And willing, which went a long way and made Arthur very happy. He'd been afraid Eames would drag his heels.

Arthur was just shifting to get something out of his briefcase when he saw it. Eames had left his sketchbook on the coffee table.

Arching a brow, Arthur stared at it. It was practically new, he'd bought it recently, but it already looked beat-up and dog-eared. Clearly Eames had been using it, and using it a lot. 

Arthur hadn't gotten a chance to ask Eames again whether he could look, the way Ariadne had urged him the day before. But on the other hand....

Well, Eames did _not_ just leave his things laying about. There were no shoes kicked off in front of the television, anything he got out he put away once he was done with it, and Arthur hadn't once found a book or an article of clothing that belonged to Eames left outside his bedroom. He strongly suspected this had been learned behavior, forced upon him by either his grandfather or the man's wife. It made Arthur feel a little bad.... He wanted to tell Eames it was all right to treat this house as though it was a home, that he could be sloppy sometimes as long as he didn't do it all the time or expect Arthur to pick up after him....

But there was no way to verbalize that without sounding weird. _"Please, make a mess. I don't mind."_ Yeah, that wouldn't be awkward at all.

The point being, Eames didn't do things like this. Leaving his sketchbook out. Even if he was going to be coming back into the room. Especially since there was no pencil or eraser anywhere near it that Arthur could see. That last was the most telling fact.

All signs pointed to Eames wanting Arthur to look at it but not being willing to just hand it over. Arthur could understand this reluctance. As he'd told Ariadne, he hadn't specifically asked to see anything since that first time. He could see where Eames might be hesitant to shove the sketchbook into his hands and just say, "here, look."

On the other hand, if Arthur was wrong about this and Eames _hadn't_ left it here deliberately, then he might consider it to be a huge breach of his privacy and trust if Arthur were to just pick it up and start paging through it.

Sometimes, though, a man just had to go on instinct. And Arthur was fairly certain that Eames had left it here on purpose. 

"It's easier to ask for forgiveness than it is to get permission," Arthur murmured to himself, setting his laptop aside and reaching for the too-tempting sketchbook. Although, honestly, where Eames was concerned, he didn't think this was true.

He recalled his promise to Ariadne, not to let Eames down. A promise that he had made to himself as well. He knew that whatever trust Eames had gained in him by this point was hard earned and easily damaged. But he also knew that Eames might well be trusting to his intelligence and observation, that Arthur would figure out Eames' motivation in leaving this sketchbook here.

Taking a deep breath, Arthur sat back and flipped the book open.

It made something in his chest ache a little, to see where Eames had written his name and their address on the inside cover, even though he couldn't have said why. The handwriting was neat and legible, and had clearly been done with great deliberation. Despite this fact, Eames had misspelled the name of the street, Arthur noted with a small smile.

There was nothing on the first page, and so he turned it, handling the book with as much care as though it might crumble to dust in his hands. Well, it was important to Eames, so it was precious to Arthur, and he'd never forgive himself if he wrinkled a page or smudged a line.

The first sketch was light and sloppy, looking as though it had been done quickly. It was a masculine hand, and Arthur at first thought that it was Eames', but then he saw the suggestion of a shirtsleeve with a cufflink, and realized with a surreal start that it was his own hand.

Lifting his hand and turning it to the nearest approximation of the angle Eames had captured -- and clearly it had not been Eames' own hand, then, since it would be impossible to look at one's own hand like that -- Arthur marveled at the skill with which Eames had captured it. It made him feel a little strange, that his hand had been the first thing Eames had drawn, but he was even more eager to see what else was in these pages. 

That Eames had talent was undeniable, and Arthur made a mental note to send Ariadne an email reminding her about the list and supplies she had promised him. He wanted to get Eames painting as soon as possible, if this was what he could do with a mere pencil lead.

Turning the pages, Arthur marveled. There were sketches of a wide variety of things. There was a nice drawing of the house, surrounded by a chaos of scribbles that told Arthur it must have been done before he had trimmed back some of the trees at the edges of the lawn and had Eames mow the grass while he did so. There were more random body parts; some of Arthur, some of Eames, some of an indeterminate source. There were sketches of animals clearly done from memory, sketches of fantastical creatures like dragons and griffins that were straight from Eames' imagination, and faces that were possibly from Eames' past, or maybe just made up. Some of the art was nearly perfect in its realism, such as the sketches of hands and lips. And other artwork was skewed, out of proportion in a way that had to have been deliberate.

To say that Arthur was stunned would have been a slight exaggeration, but he was very definitely impressed and filled to bursting with pride and with the overwhelming desire to help Eames to advance in his craft.

Starting by getting him a new sketchbook, Arthur made a mental note. This one was over two-thirds of the way full.

Toward the end, growing nearer the blank pages, Arthur found pictures that were clearly more personal to Eames, and to Arthur as well. Eames had tried to draw Arthur smiling, more than once, but had felt he'd failed if the hard lines and the way multiple uses of the eraser had torn up the paper were any indication. Arthur thought that they looked all right, looked like him, but it was obvious that Eames hadn't thought the same. One of them had two thick lines ground through it in a obliterating X, but Arthur was reasonably certain that this was an expression of frustration with the art, not with Arthur himself. Or at least so he devoutly hoped.

There were more sketches of Arthur, rendered more successfully, he found as he forged onward. Eames had captured him looking down, his expression intent, a line between his brows, and at rest with his eyes closed, his mouth lax. Those had probably been done from life, while Arthur had been distracted or napping, whereas the smile had been something Eames had tried to draw from memory.

Arthur found himself thinking that he should smile more often. For Eames' sake, not his own.

The last few pages just about broke Arthur's heart, because they were filled with drawings of Moira. Moira laughing, Moira tossing her hair, Moira smiling gently and affectionately.... Arthur thought that they were all exquisite, but several of them had been abandoned halfway through, so he wasn't sure Eames felt the same.

He was just dwelling over the last drawing in the book when Eames padded into the living room, stocking-footed and carrying two steaming plates. It looked as though he had made them grilled sandwiches, thick sourdough slices filled with chicken breasts, peppers, and sun-dried tomatoes. Arthur should have felt hungry seeing them, but all he felt was sad.

Without saying anything, Eames set the plates down on the coffee table and slipped onto the sofa beside Arthur, tucking his legs up underneath himself.

"I tried to sketch Mum from memory," he said in his husky voice, not moving to take the sketchbook, even though Arthur would have willingly handed it over, "But I couldn't remember exactly how she looked." He grimaced and poked at the sketch Arthur was looking at. "So then I tried doing it from a photo, but there was no life in it."

"I think these are good," Arthur said, speaking carefully and thinking hard about all the mistakes he'd made in the past, talking to Ariadne about her art. "But I can understand if you see more flaws in your art than I do."

Now Eames did move to take the book from Arthur, but not quickly or pointedly. He did it casually, as though it was something he'd previously passed to Arthur, rather than something incredibly personally important that he'd left out in an aggressively passive manner of sharing.

"It bothers me," Eames said, trailing his fingertips through the lead of the drawing, smearing it ever so faintly with the oil on the pads. Arthur winced but it was Eames' art to mar in this way if he chose. "I tried so hard...."

His voice wobbled. He didn't seem near to tears, but he was definitely more emotionally open than he tended to be. Arthur shifted so that he could wrap one arm around Eames' shoulders, not sure this touch would be welcome, relieved when it was silently accepted.

When he spoke, he chose his words even more carefully than before. Because this wasn't an artist's ego, this was a boy's heart. "What's important isn't remembering what your mother looked like," he told Eames as firmly but compassionately as he could. "What's really important is remembering how she made you feel."

It came out sounding more trite when he said it aloud than it had seemed in his head, but Eames accepted it quietly, looking thoughtful and leaning more heavily against Arthur.

"What really, _really_ bothers me," he said, licking his lips and fidgeting with the edges of the page the sketchbook was open to, "Is that I can't remember her voice."

Arthur wanted to say something but no words came to mind, and Eames continued.

"Sometimes I dream her and there it is, her smile and her voice, the way she hugged me... but it's not the same."

"No, it wouldn't be," Arthur murmured, his heart aching for Eames. He wanted to fix this, somehow. But nothing short of resurrecting Moira could do that, which was well and away beyond Arthur's abilities. "I'm really sorry, Eames," he offered, for what it was worth.

Eames tossed the sketchbook carelessly to the opposite side of the sofa, and Arthur narrowly resisted the urge to protest this rough handling. It was Eames' property and Arthur was fortunate that he'd been allowed to page through it at his leisure.

Then Eames moved to tuck himself in close to Arthur's chest, and Arthur wrapped both his arms around his nephew, holding him close. Eames didn't cry, but he did bury his face in Arthur's shirt front and breathe a little heavily, his arms moving to circle Arthur's waist, holding on with a matching degree of pressure to Arthur's embrace.

Arthur didn't know what to say and so he said nothing. Eames was warm and solid in his arms, and Arthur hoped that this was enough for now, even though he had the sneaking suspicion that it was not. 

They sat there, Arthur holding Eames close against him, and on the coffee table their lunch got cold. But even though the sandwiches would have been better hot, neither of them cared.

Because some things were far, far more important than food.


	4. Chapter 4

It came to Arthur after the fact, that aside from the drawings of Moira and a few artsy nudes clearly copied from the old masters, there hadn't been any females in Eames' sketchbook. No ridiculously well-endowed elf-maids to go with the dragons, no centerfolds or actresses.... No breasts or vaginas, and the two or three penises that he _had_ seen in there had been artfully rendered, had not been crude sketches exploring and glorifying sex, as he might have expected from a teen male.

Arthur had to wonder whether this said anything about Eames' preferences, or if he was just reading too much into it. It wasn't really any of his business, and yet as Eames' uncle and legal guardian he felt that he ought to know. Just so that he could provide for Eames' emotional health and mental well-being.

Yeah, that was the reason.

Speaking of Eames' emotions and well-being.... Well, Arthur was trying and Eames was doing better, but there was no quick and easy fix for Eames' mother dying. Not that Arthur thought there should be, of course. But he couldn't help wishing, on some of the bad days, that there was.

There were far more good days than bad, thankfully. The hardest thing, for Arthur, was finding a way to keep Eames occupied while he was gone at work, in order to keep Eames from thinking too much and twisting himself in knots. Because he had a distinct tendency to do so, Arthur had noted.

Utilizing Ariadne's advice, Arthur had requested that Eames do one painting per room in the house, as well as for the dojo, conceived and crafted to match the decor and color schemes. Ariadne had gotten Arthur the requested oil supplies and list the very morning after she'd met Eames, and Arthur had gotten everything on the list before heading home the next work day, after the weekend. It had cost him his lunch break and several hundred dollars, but it had been worth it for the look on Eames' face.

"Ariadne said that if you want to do a painting for her, that'd be great," Arthur told Eames while handing over the oil paints -- tubes organized in an old, beat-up, color-stained fishing tackle box that Ariadne evidently didn't need any longer -- the brushes, canvases, palette, easel, thinners, and something called a palette knife. Arthur had never known so much went into painting, though he shouldn't have been surprised. Ariadne had also told him to expect Eames to go through a _lot_ of paper towels. Still, it would all be worth it to see what Eames came up with.

"But if you don't that's okay too," Arthur continued, because the last thing he or Ariadne wanted to do was pressure Eames into anything. "She just didn't want these supplies to go to waste, and she hated to think of you with nothing but paper and a pencil."

All of it had been true; she had said that. She and Arthur had both agreed to imply that _all_ the supplies had come from her. Arthur was willing to lie if he had to, so that Eames wouldn't feel so indebted to him. Of course, old supplies or not, now Eames felt indebted to Ariadne. But at least as a fellow artist, he could understand the motivation behind her generosity.

"You don't have to do the art for the house, either," Arthur said. "It's only a suggestion, a request. But as long as we both agree that the end product is passable, I'd very much like to frame and hang your paintings. I haven't seen any of them yet, of course, but I've seen your sketches and I have a lot of faith in your abilities."

Eames blushed, mumbled something, and then began organizing his new painting supplies on the surface of his empty desk.

"Make sure you open the window when you use those," Arthur instructed, feeling as though it was a little intrusive of him to hang around Eames' bedroom without explicit permission, but unable to drag himself away. "I may not know how to paint, but I know how nasty the fumes are. I don't want you doing yourself any damage."

"Okay," Eames said, nodding. His voice was rough and he was steadfastly avoiding meeting Arthur's eyes, keeping his head down. Arthur was pretty sure he knew why. 

"I'm going to go and start dinner," he told Eames, knowing that the boy was going to need his space, at least until he had gotten himself back under control. "Join me in the kitchen if you like. Otherwise I'll come get you when it's time to eat."

"Thanks," Eames said, shooting him a watery grin. Arthur wanted to hug him, but he held off. It wasn't easy, but he'd been working on his timing. And now was not the time.

He was sure of that, which was what made it so surprising when Eames came into the kitchen less than five minutes later and embraced him from behind where he was standing at the stove. 

Eames didn't say anything, just held onto Arthur for several moments, his sharp cheekbone pressed against Arthur's shoulderblade, but he didn't _need_ to say anything. The intent, the closeness, and the warmth spoke more to Arthur's heart than any words could have done.

Too soon, as far as Arthur was concerned, Eames loosed his hold and stepped back, going to the fridge for a drink and sitting at the table.

"How does soup and grilled cheese sound?" Arthur asked, peering over at his nephew.

"Brilliant," Eames replied, and his smile looked as sincere as any Arthur had gotten out of him yet.

Arthur couldn't have asked for more.

***

Despite the fact that he and Eames were getting along better than ever, Arthur wasn't the sort to let the grass grow under his feet. And the fact that he was growing more and more comfortable with Eames, being near him, touching him.... Well, that just meant that he needed to go out and find someone to sleep with that much sooner.

It wasn't _right_ , to feel that familiar rising heat when he held Eames in his arms. Arthur was supposed to be offering Eames comfort and support, not being turned on by the solid hardness of Eames' young body in his arms. So far his dick hadn't joined the party, it had only been his mind that had registered the arousal -- aside from that one shameful night when Eames had crawled into bed with him, suffering from a headache and only seeking some affection after crying himself out -- but that didn't make Arthur feel any better about all this.

Eames was beautiful, it was true, but he was Arthur's nephew and he was his responsibility. The fact that Arthur found him to be sexually attractive was a deviation, and it indicated to Arthur that he really, really needed to get laid. 

Since there was no one in his life that he cared about and trusted enough to have sex with -- aside from Ariadne, who was a female, uninterested in him, and interested in someone else -- and since it had been over a year since he'd last been in an actual relationship, that meant that Arthur had to go out and find someone in a club or a bar. Not his favored method of getting laid, but he'd done it before, and he was growing desperate.

So the very first evening Ariadne had free, Arthur begged and bribed her to come and watch Eames for him as he went out and shed himself of the last vestiges of self respect that he still retained. Not that Ariadne minded the chance to spend more time with Eames, but she still disapproved of Arthur's plans, and let him know this in no uncertain terms.

"Be sure that you use protection," she scolded, seeing him out the door while Eames banged around in the kitchen. Hopefully the boy had zero idea what Arthur was planning, but while he was evidently happy to see Ariadne, he was just as clearly displeased that Arthur was going out without either of them.

"Of course!" Arthur snapped, resisting the powerful urge to punch Ariadne in the shoulder since she was doing him a huge favor here. "And shut up! I don't want Eames to hear you!"

She pulled a face. "Just text me if you're going to be out all night," she added. "And don't go home with any skeevy strangers, okay? I'll never forgive you if you get yourself knifed."

"Jesus," Arthur scowled. "I thought you trusted my taste more than that!"

"That was before I knew you were going to go out simply to get laid!" Ariadne hissed back, thankfully keeping her voice down, because there was silence in the kitchen, which might mean that Eames was making his way toward them. "Go on," she instructed. "Be good, be safe, and don't worry about us; _we'll_ be fine."

Arthur scowled at her, not liking the way she sounded so judgmental, but then he got going. Hanging around at the door wasn't going to get him anywhere, and Ariadne was right that he ought to feel ashamed of himself. She just didn't know the entirety of it.

Of course, if she had, she'd never have forgiven him. So it was definitely for the best that she didn't. And it was even more essential that Eames never find out.

That would just be disastrous.

***

Despite plans and his best intentions, Arthur was home well before eleven. Part of him was disappointed, but mostly he was relieved. Maybe he'd just gotten too old for going out and finding a one-night stand, but no one he'd met tonight had met his admittedly somewhat exacting standards. Not even close. So home it was, and even though he hadn't done what he had gone out for, he couldn't help but be glad.

Ariadne was certainly pleased to see him. Not that he thought she'd minded watching Eames. But the fact that Arthur was home so early and very definitely un-debauched seemed to set something in her mind at ease. 

Arthur supposed it ought to be flattering that she worried about him so much, but mostly it was kind of annoying. He was a grown man who could make his own choices. It was bad enough Eames worried about him wrecking his car every weekday during his commute. Eames did his best not to let on, of course, but Arthur was well aware that the boy was a bundle of nerves every time he got home and it took him a good twenty minutes to calm down. 

"Hey!" Ariadne whispered as Arthur walked into the living room, her face lighting up. She was sitting on the sofa with Eames' head in her lap, fingers running through his hair, and if he wasn't asleep, then he was the next closest thing.

"He wouldn't go to bed until you got home," Ariadne said, and even though she was speaking quietly, Eames stirred and blinked his eyes open.

Arthur felt his heart clench at how sleepy and vulnerable and sweet Eames looked. Not that it was his place to notice any of that... but why not? So long as he didn't sexualize it.

Of course, just saying something didn't make it so, and evidently Arthur was a pervert at heart because he couldn't help but note that Eames was about a billion times better looking and more desirable than any of the men or boys that Arthur had seen tonight. 

He really was sunk.

"Go on to bed," he instructed gently, crossing and helping Eames up off the sofa, then pressing a kiss to his forehead, even though this was taking a bit of a liberty. But it wasn't as though he hadn't done something similar before, and Eames looked as though he could use the extra reassurance.

"Okay," Eames mumbled, moving to go easily enough, but the look he gave Arthur was dark and intense. Arthur didn't know how to read it, so he didn't try.

"Goodnight, Ariadne," Eames said politely before he left the room. "Thank you for babysitting me."

"I was keeping you company while you were home alone," Ariadne corrected as Arthur winced. Eames hadn't sounded bitter about it, but it wasn't good for him to think of it that way. Or, rather, to think that this was the way Arthur and Ariadne saw it.

Then Eames went to bed as directed and Arthur walked Ariadne to her car.

"You're kind of screwed, Arthur," she said conversationally, once they were out the door.

"What? What do you mean?" he asked, more than a little concerned by this bald statement. She could have meant so many different things....

"Eames is smart. Like, really smart. I know you are too, but he's as smart as you are, even if he applies it differently. That's bound to make your life all kinds of difficult in the future."

Arthur grimaced, but it wasn't as though she was telling him something he didn't already know. 

"Was he all right for you tonight?"

"Yeah." She smiled, looking more fond than he had ever seen her look over anything that wasn't edible. "He showed me some of his in-progress paintings, since I'd given him the supplies, and he's really good. Like, _really_ good, Arthur."

"I know," he said, because he did know. He hadn't seen any of the paintings yet, but he'd looked through Eames' sketchbook. He hoped to see a painting before too long... if Eames was amenable. 

"We talked about what he might paint for me and the color scheme in my apartment," Ariadne continued. "I've got no idea what he's going to come up with, but I'm sure it'll be beautiful. The hardest part will be making sure that he doesn't trash it before I get to see the finished product."

"You noticed that, huh?" Arthur sighed. "He's terrible at taking compliments. I know his grandfather was a complete bastard who was definitely verbally abusive, but I'd have thought that Moira would have been more... nurturing. I mean, I know she loved Eames, and he certainly misses her so much it makes _me_ hurt."

Ariadne nodded, looking sad. "Well, even if she was generous with the praise -- which I don't really get that sense, but what do I know -- the negative things he heard might have stuck more. You know how that works. How long did they live with the old man?"

"Not sure," Arthur admitted. "I didn't keep up with that side of my family. Probably at least eight years, though, which would make Eames pretty young when the asshole became a part of his life. I never met the man, of course, and I barely heard anything from Moira, but some of the quotes from him that have come out of Eames' mouth have made me wish for the chance to punch him."

Ariadne nodded, scowling. "Yeah, I think I got one of those tonight. He told me that art was useless unless you were famous and well-paid.... You can guess that I told him what I thought of that. I tried to be nice about it, but he still looked like he thought I was going to hit him."

"I don't know if any of the abuse was physical," Arthur frowned, and the night was chilly where they were standing next to Ariadne's car, but talking about Eames with someone who had spent time with him separate from Arthur's interactions with him felt really important for some reason. "But it wouldn't surprise me."

Ariadne fidgeted with her keys, not seeming to want to break off the conversation and leave any more than Arthur wanted her to do so. 

"Did he mimic his grandfather's tone?" Arthur asked, curious.

"I think so." Ariadne tilted her head, glancing at the house even though Eames had already gone to his room. "Maybe once he's in school he could try out for the theatre. I bet he'd be good at it."

"You should probably be the one to suggest it to him," Arthur said. "You know, authority figure and all." He gestured to himself.

Ariadne laughed, which he probably should have expected. "It's hard for me to think of you that way," she said. "But I guess you are."

"Did Eames say anything about me?" Arthur was curious. "Or ask anything?"

"He wanted to know how we met and what sort of friends we were," Ariadne said. "At first he seemed to think I might be another half-sister to you, since he said we looked a lot alike. Then he suggested we might be lovers."

Arthur loosed a loud snort before he could stop himself.

"Yeah, like that," Ariadne grinned. "I disabused him of that idea right away. Didn't tell him you were gay, though, since it didn't seem you had done."

Arthur winced. "The subject hasn't come up." He paused a moment, then decided to just go ahead and ask. "Do you think.... What do you think about Eames?"

Ariadne gave him a slightly sardonic look, then shook her head. "Thanks for the specificity. Yes, I know what you're asking me, Arthur. And I don't know. He hasn't given me any indications either way."

Arthur nodded, because he hadn't really expected anything else.

Ariadne shivered. "Well, it's cold so I'm going to go. Eames is really sweet, Arthur. I'll come and hang out with him any time you need me to... though I'd prefer it to be for another reason."

"You've already made your feelings on the matter clear," Arthur said stiffly, because he still thought that having sex with someone who was _not_ his underage nephew might be the answer to a lot of his problems. More specifically, the one that made him feel like an unfit guardian.

"Goodnight, Arthur," Ariadne said sweetly, kissing Arthur's chin because that was as far as she could easily reach, and then climbing into her car. He waved her on her way down the long gravel driveway, then turned and went into the house.

It took every ounce of will power he possessed not to knock on Eames' door, or crack it open to see whether Eames was asleep already.

Although, it didn't seem as though Arthur was the only one who was feeling needy, considering the way that Eames silently crept into his bed again, a few minutes after midnight. 

Arthur spared a moment to thank the powers that be that he'd cleaned up and pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms after he'd gotten himself off earlier, but mostly he was focused on the feeling of Eames wriggling into his arms, warm and heavy, scented with sleep and sweet beeswax and teenage male. 

"Sorry," Eames whispered, before Arthur could form the question that he knew he ought to ask. He didn't say anything further, just buried his face in Arthur's collarbones, his arm ringing Arthur's chest, and Arthur tucked him in close.

And, well, maybe here, in the darkness, in the middle of the night, there were no words needed.

***

When Arthur woke, he did so slowly, with a warm and lazy feeling of contentment. Then he realized why he was so warm, and there went his feeling of contentment.

He didn't move, though, because the part where he was warm and lazy still held him captive. Eames was pressed up against him, his hair tickling Arthur's chin and nose, his fingers curled at the small of Arthur's back, above the waistband of his pajama bottoms. Arthur could feel Eames' breath, gusting hot and moist against his skin, causing him to shudder with sleepy arousal. He could also feel Eames' morning wood digging into his belly.

That was new. That hadn't happened the time they had shared a bed before. Last time it had been Arthur who had woken up with a semi, much to his horror and shame. Still, it wasn't much of a surprise, considering that Eames was a fifteen year old boy. Arthur was more concerned by his own reaction to it.

What he _wanted_ to do was grab a hold of Eames' tight young buttocks, tug him close, and let him rock his erection against Arthur's stomach. He wanted to bury his face in Eames' throat the way Eames' face was buried in his own, breathing in the scent of his flesh and tasting the salt that would rise as Eames thrust his way toward completion. He wanted to sink his fingers into Eames' hair and _tug_ , not hard, just enough to sting a little and add to the pleasure....

"Oh, God," Arthur groaned, aloud without meaning to, because he really was wrong in the head if all of this had run through his thoughts so easily. Being half asleep was no excuse, and now _he_ was getting hard as well.

"Ngh, wha-?" Eames mumbled, coming awake dangerously quickly. "Shit, sorry," he rumbled, rolling away from Arthur and sitting up, his thighs pulled up close to his chest. He sank his fingers into hair that already couldn't have been messier, and Arthur could see his cheeks pinking, even though he kept his face turned most of the way away.

"Sorry," he mumbled again.

"It's not a problem," Arthur said, as smoothly as he could when he was trapped where he lounged on his side, unable to get up for fear that Eames would see his own erection, ill concealed by the front of his pants. Shit.

"I'll just-- I'll go and-- Coffee," Eames got up, scrambling out of Arthur's bed and escaping as quickly as his bare feet could carry him. He was only wearing a pair of boxers and Arthur could still remember how it had felt to have Eames' leg slung over his hip.

"Shit."

He meant to have a cold shower and quell his insistent erection. But then he heard the shower in the main bathroom start up, and when he entered his own bathroom and stepped into the stall he couldn't help envisioning Eames taking care of his morning hard-on the conventional way, and... well, he wasn't made of ice, dammit.

Even though it did leave him feeling as much embarrassed as replete once he had come and it was time to get dressed and join Eames in the kitchen to start their day.

Not to mention feeling like a total pervert.

***

Once he'd gotten off while thinking about Eames getting himself off at the same time, Arthur knew it was even more imperative he got out there and get laid. If he wasn't going to find a stranger to fit the bill, maybe he was going to have to dig into the short list of personal acquaintances he could stand.

Unfortunately, it was _very_ short list. Only one name popped up, at least out of acquaintances who were male, single, and available. 

Even more unfortunately, Arthur was reminded all over again _why_ Nash was still single, and he discovered all over again that, no, actually, Nash was _not_ someone he could stand. Not even for dinner, much less anything involving sex.

He was home even earlier than last time, and the sad truth of the matter was that he enjoyed two minutes of the three hours he, Eames, and Ariadne spent playing board games together before Ariadne had to leave about a hundred times more than the entire hour and half he'd spent having dinner with Nash, before he'd ditched the man.

"Bye, guys!" Ariadne waved cheerfully from her car while Arthur and Eames stood in the doorway and waved back. Since it was only ten-thirty, Eames was still up and Arthur didn't bother walking Ariadne out. If she wanted to say anything to him privately about Eames, she could email him. And if she did have something to say, Arthur had no doubt that she would do so. Remaining silent wasn't something Ariadne bothered with when she had an opinion.

"I'm... I'm glad that you're home," Eames said shyly, as he and Arthur returned to the living room. "Even if... maybe you're not."

"I'm glad to be home too," Arthur protested, speaking the words quickly enough that they could both be sure he was being completely honest. "Why wouldn't I be?"

And maybe he shouldn't have asked that question, but it didn't really matter, because Eames just ducked his head, bit his lower lip, and didn't reply.

Arthur reached over and folded Eames into a hug. He might have been leery about his own feelings and motivations but he knew that when in doubt, it was best to touch Eames. The boy needed it, the way he needed the food and shelter that Arthur provided for him. He needed to know that he was valued and that Arthur cared about him. It might not be an exaggeration to call it love, even though they were still in the whole getting-to-know one another stage....

But Eames was wonderful, even if he was touchy and occasionally overly anxious, and he was Arthur's nephew, his blood. How could Arthur say that he _didn't_ love Eames?

Eames melted easily enough into the embrace, pressing his cheek to Arthur's shoulder and wrapping his arms around Arthur in return. It felt good, it felt right, and they both held on tightly because how could they not?

***

Since the weekend was over -- largely unsuccessfully, though Arthur couldn't bring himself to begrudge any time spent with both Eames and Ariadne -- the next morning saw him preparing to head for work. 

Mornings were different, now that he had Eames living with him. Since Eames had no school yet, and no set schedule, Arthur had more than half expected him to sleep in every day... but he didn't. He rose about the same time Arthur did, had tea while Arthur had coffee, they went jogging, one or the other of them made breakfast, then they both ate it together.

It was strange and companionable, and Arthur definitely didn't regret the change. Ariadne said that he was looking better, that he had more meat on him than he'd had before Eames had moved in. Of course, Arthur made sure that it was all muscle. He and Eames both kept up a regular work-out regimen, completely aside from their morning jog. Arthur was really glad that Eames was not only willing, but seemed eager.

They split the chores with Eames doing a majority of the cleaning. Arthur was surprised by this, but he couldn't complain when he really hated cleaning. Eames said it was because Arthur was the one who was going out and earning the money that kept Eames housed and fed. He really was fair-minded and responsible for a fifteen year old, and someday that would stop being strange to Arthur. Probably.

Well, it wasn't as if Arthur had been so very different when he'd been that age. Maybe it had more to do with genetics than how they had been raised... though he wouldn't have thought so.

Right now they were sitting at the table, breakfast eaten, finishing off the last of their coffee and tea. Arthur's hair was damp and slightly curling from his shower, since he had yet to tame it, but he _was_ already dressed to go. Eames was wearing a teeshirt and sweatpants, his own hair still a wild mess. He'd told Arthur he was planning on doing some light weightlifting in the dojo before he bathed, and Arthur could smell him where he sat. It wasn't unpleasant; it was simply strong. Sweat from their run and the musk of teenage boy. In fact, Arthur would have liked to lean in and get a closer whiff.... But that was him being a pervert again.

He bit back a grimace, because it made Eames anxious when he caught any negative expressions that he couldn't explain on Arthur's face. It made Arthur sad sometimes, how uncertain and insecure Eames could be. But it only made sense. Moira had done her best and she had loved her son, but the life she had given him had been nothing approaching consistent, and kids needed consistency. That was something Arthur was trying very hard to give Eames.

Eames had his sketchbook out -- a fresh one, since he'd filled up the first one Arthur had gotten him -- and his eyes were flicking between the page and Arthur's face.

Arthur arched a brow, and Eames flushed when he caught his gaze.

"Just... carry on," Eames instructed gruffly, waving his pencil.

Arthur couldn't help grinning and ducking his head a little sheepishly. He wasn't shy, per se, but this was the first time he'd actually _seen_ Eames in the process of drawing him, and he was flattered by the intensity in those dark grey eyes. 

"You'll ruin the drawing like that," Eames protested, but his face had lit up, and he flipped to a new page, the lead skittering over the paper as he worked feverishly to capture whatever it was he was seeing in Arthur's face. 

"Sorry," Arthur apologized, but he knew that neither of them really meant what they had said, and he couldn't help the grin that remained on his lips as Eames continued to draw.

He was probably going to be a few minutes late, should already be in the bathroom, pomading his hair and making sure his tie was straight, but... it was just too tempting and too pleasant, sitting here with Eames.

Thinking back, Arthur could remember what his mornings had been like before Eames. But he didn't know how he had been able to stand them.

***

The week passed as the week generally did. Arthur worked, he exercised with Eames, they both cooked and did dishes, and then they enjoyed their quiet time together once these obligations were out of the way. 

"Before you ask, I can't come over on Friday," Ariadne told Arthur, as they had lunch together on Wednesday. 

Arthur hadn't been planning on inviting her over, but it seemed rude to say this, so instead he asked, "Do you have a date?"

From the pretty pink color she flushed, he knew the answer even before she replied. "No! But... Robert is coming over to look at my etchings--"

Arthur burst into raucous laughter, even though he wasn't any too fond of Robert Fischer.

"Shut up!" Ariadne snapped, flushing even darker.

"God, Ari, why don't you just say it's a booty call and get it over with?" he asked.

She pulled a sour face at him. "Just because it sounds like a cliche, that doesn't mean that I don't actually have etchings I want to show him," she said primly. Arthur had to admit that she had a point; he'd seen them himself, after all. "Besides," she added with a sniff. "We're only up to the second date, and I don't put out until the third."

Arthur snorted. That was a blatant untruth and they both knew it. Ariadne didn't date, she just sort of flowed in and out of relationships in an organic way that sometimes took her current partner by surprise. And she 'put out', as she had so crudely phrased it, whenever she wanted. There was no set timeline. Although, it was kind of comforting to hear that she hadn't slept with Robert... yet.

Not that it was any of Arthur's business, of course. On the other hand, Ariadne was his friend. Plus....

"I don't really like Robert," he informed her.

Ariadne pulled a face. "I know you don't. I also know why."

Arthur's brows arched. "Oh?"

"Yup." Ariadne smirked at him, her earlier pique forgotten. "It's because in a lot of ways he's a lot like you, and in all the other ways, he's your complete opposite."

Arthur frowned at her. "What does that say about _our_ relationship, then?" he asked curiously.

"Absolutely nothing," she grinned. "You're gay and you're my best friend. Robert is neither of those things."

Arthur scowled. "Shouldn't you be friends with someone you're getting romantically involved with?" he asked, because the last thing he wanted was for Ariadne to get hurt again.

Her smile softened. "Of course. But you're something different, Arthur. We could never see each other again, never talk again, and I'd still consider you one of my best friends in the world." She shook her head. "Besides, I'm still working things out with Robert. That's why I'm seeing him Friday. I'm giving him a chance, and I wish you would too."

"I just worry about you," Arthur said with a sigh. "And I don't know if you've noticed, but Robert can be kind of a jerk sometimes."

"I've noticed," Ariadne allowed, fulfilling Arthur's faith in her intelligence and perceptiveness. "I just think that he can become something better, especially now that his father has passed away. And before you say anything, no, I'm not pulling the whole _I can change him_ shtick. I just honestly think that somewhere underneath the sarcasm and bad attitude there's a genuinely nice guy, and I'm willing to do some digging. If it turns out he's nothing but a jerk with a few good tendencies instead of the other way around, I'll bail. You know I will."

"And am I allowed to remind you about this conversation later if it becomes necessary?" Arthur asked, because he wasn't the type to leave anything to chance.

"Yes," she sighed, rolling her eyes, but setting his mind at ease a bit with this simple one-word reply.

"All right, then," Arthur allowed. "I'll give him a chance. But I'm going to speak up if I ever get the feeling that he's bad for you."

"I know you will," Ariadne said, smiling at him. "And that's one of the things I love about you."

Arthur might have been gay, but he wasn't gay enough to sling back an "I love you too," so instead he gave her a quick smile and turned his attention to his lunch.

"By the way," Ariadne said, after a mouthful or two of her cheeseburger, "Speaking of booty calls, Eames _knows_ why you went out twice last weekend."

Arthur could feel his ears growing hot, and he reminded himself quickly that neither Eames nor Ariadne knew the _real_ reason behind his attempts at hooking up.

"How do you know that?" he asked, stabbing his salad a little too vigorously. "Did he say something Sunday night?"

"Sort of," Ariadne grimaced. There was a blob of ketchup at the corner of her mouth, but she'd catch it eventually, and Arthur was too intent on what she was saying now to point it out. "I mean, the first thing he did was ask me if you had a girlfriend. I told him no, because you don't."

Arthur heard the mild censor in her voice but ignored it. After all, it wasn't as though he felt that he could just come out and say, "oh, by the way I'm gay" to Eames, unprompted. And the norm was to assume that someone was straight, so it wasn't surprising that Eames had asked it that way.

"Then he got real quiet for a while," Ariadne went on, dragging the last of her fries through her garlic-mayonnaise and popping them in her mouth. 

"Did you ask him what he was thinking?" Arthur asked, because he knew Ariadne, and he knew how she handled things. Head-on and unabashed.

"Yeah. He said he was relieved that you weren't hiding a lover from him, but he was worried because he didn't like you going out to pick up." She wiped her mouth with her napkin and gave Arthur a sharp look. "His words, not mine."

"I'm pretty sure you put it that way too," Arthur grumbled, setting down his fork. He was pretty much done with his salad, and his appetite had kind of fled. "Great. So now he thinks I'm a slut?"

Ariadne laughed. "No, no, nothing like that. He had a mother who was just a little older than you and unmarried, right? So Eames is familiar with the habits of a single, attractive parent going out to get laid."

Arthur winced, but that _had_ been his plan, so he couldn't really protest. "Damn."

It wasn't that any of this was in any way a surprise. He'd known that Eames was intelligent. Now that he thought about it, he probably would have been more surprised if his nephew _hadn't_ figured it out.

And Ariadne might not think so, but Arthur was afraid that now Eames _would_ think he was easy or something. And Arthur wasn't Eames' mother, so he didn't have the built-in love and respect that Moira had commanded from Eames. Arthur had to _earn_ those things. 

"This is a step backward," he mumbled, frowning at his water glass.

"Not necessarily," Ariadne said, making him aware that he'd said that aloud. "It's not a bad thing that he knows you're human, Arthur."

Arthur snorted, because that was a generous way of putting it. "Well, thanks for letting me know," he said. Because it was better to be forewarned, when it came to something like this.

"No problem," Ariadne demurred, and then they finished up their meal and went their separate ways.

***

Of course, being forewarned did Arthur absolutely no good when he arrived home from work on Friday evening.

It started out weird and just got weirder, to be honest. And yet, at no point did Arthur feel as though he put his foot down and say "no". Especially once he figured out _why_ Eames was doing what he was doing....

The first thing Eames assailed Arthur with, as he walked in the door, was a glass of red wine.

"Ariadne bought it for me," Eames explained, before Arthur could get his mouth working to ask. "Not to drink, I mean. I promised her I wouldn't unless you said it was all right. But she got it for me to give to you."

"Okay," Arthur said slowly. He couldn't really be angry at Eames when the boy looked so adorably earnest, but he was definitely going to chew Ariadne out the next time he saw her. He was inclined to do it now, but since she was probably showing Robert her etchings at this very moment, he doubted she'd pick up his call.

Besides which, Eames was still talking, and he deserved Arthur's full attention.

"I drew the bath for you," Eames continued, and this somewhat archaic phrase didn't sound as trite as it might have done when he spoke the words in his English accent. It was still weird, though, and if Arthur hadn't been so captivated by the lines in Eames' forehead and the way he was holding his upper lip a little stiff, he might have asked just what in the hell Eames was thinking.

"I know you usually shower," Eames continued, reaching up and rubbing nervously at his nose. "But I thought you might like a chance to soak and relax, with some hot water and wine, while I make dinner."

"You're making dinner?" Arthur asked, feeling as though he was missing something really important, but unable to collect his scattered thoughts enough to figure out what it might be. It wasn't that Eames hadn't made them dinner before, of course, but on Friday evenings it was usually Arthur who cooked, or ordered them a pizza if he was feeling lazy.

Eames nodded, and he looked so determined and yet trepidatious, that what could Arthur do but take his glass of wine into his bathroom, while Eames repaired to the kitchen.

The tub was indeed filled with steaming water, and Arthur noted wryly that Eames hadn't mentioned the scented candles or the bubbles.... That last must have been purchased by Ariadne as well, and Arthur made a mental note to ask her just what in the hell she had been thinking.

In the meantime, he stripped off his work clothes and slid into the sweet-smelling water with a small sigh. His job wasn't very physically taxing, but it could be draining, and he'd never really treated himself like this. It was surprisingly calming and relaxing.

The wine was good, which he _wasn't_ surprised by, because Ariadne had pretty decent taste. Still, she shouldn't have been buying alcohol for a minor, even if Eames had promised her he wouldn't touch it himself. She didn't know him well enough to know whether he would keep his word.... Or, well, maybe she did. A little trust could go a long way, as Arthur well knew, and Ariadne was a good judge of character, most of the time.

As he soaked in a dimly lit bathroom filled with scented candles, Arthur let his mind wander. This was all so unusual, and yet he couldn't think how he could have rejected it without hurting Eames' feelings. Not that he wasn't enjoying it... but it was _weird_ and he was a little anxious about Eames making dinner by himself in the kitchen. It wasn't that Arthur didn't trust him in there, but....

With a light knock at the half-cracked door, Eames peered inside. "Do you want more wine?" he asked, his eyes wide and his cheeks faintly flushed as he very determinedly did _not_ look at Arthur's body. The bubbles that were nearly all dissolved by this point, and hid very little, if anything.

"No, but thanks for asking," Arthur replied, smiling at Eames as reassuringly as he could manage when he was feeling about as awkward as Eames looked. He'd only sipped at it so far; otherwise he might be nodding off in the tub.

"Then I'll go and.... Dinner will be ready soon," Eames said, thrusting his thumb over his shoulder. "I put your comfy clothes on the countertop by the sink. Don't hurry, but you should be out in about ten or fifteen minutes."

"Sure." Arthur sat up, ready to say more, but Eames scampered away. As he rose from the slowly cooling water and dried off with fluffy towel, Arthur finished off his glass of wine, blew out the candles, and then raised his head and sniffed the air. Something smelled delicious, and he suspected he recognized the odor, but surely he couldn't be right....

Only he totally was, as he discovered after he got dressed and joined Eames in the kitchen.

"I asked Ariadne what your favorite meal was," Eames said shyly, "In restaurants, you know. And she said something called 'surf and turf', which I guess is steak and lobster? But I can't cook steak perfectly the way you do, so I asked her to get me some lobster tails. I hope... I hope that's good enough."

"Absolutely," Arthur replied, too startled to do anything other than answer honestly. "But how did you know how to cook that?"

He regretted asking the moment the words left his mouth, but the fact of the matter was that there was no way Moira or her father could have been able to afford lobster. Not to mention, Eames' grandfather had held that cooking was a woman's purview. Eames had needed to learn cooking from scratch when he had moved in with Arthur, and lobster wasn't exactly easy.

Eames didn't seem to mind Arthur asking, though. He smiled and ducked his head a little bashfully. "The internet. I think I got it right, though. The hardest part was the drawn butter."

Arthur had nothing to say to this, and he didn't dare offer to help as Eames turned his full attention to finishing up and plating their dinner, so he remained silent and poured them both some wine. Eames had expressed interest, albeit in a roundabout way, and Arthur certainly had no intention of bogarding the bottle. 

"Thank you," Eames said, as they sat down at the table and he noticed the wineglass set at his spot.

"No, thank _you_ ," Arthur replied. He was giving Eames a bi-weekly allowance, ostensibly for the chores Eames did, and he suspected Eames must have blown a couple of months' worth on this meal.... But he couldn't figure out _why_.

"This is amazing," he said, a few moments later, when his initial mouthful proved that Eames had done a perfect job cooking the lobster. There were also baked potatoes and steamed broccoli, and Arthur felt spoiled. He also felt, in a bizarre and not entirely comfortable way, as though he was being courted, even though he knew better. Eames was his nephew, after all.

But the bubble bath, the wine, the candles, the lobster dinner...?

"How was your day?" Eames asked, taking a sip of wine and then wrinkling his nose. It was a little dry, but otherwise not a bad choice, though Arthur was going to have to give Ariadne a hard time for choosing to get Eames a red to go with seafood. Really, she ought to know better, even if Eames didn't.

"It went pretty well," Arthur answered, digging into his dinner with gusto. The only thing that might have improved it would be some bread... and no sooner had the thought crossed his mind than the egg-timer dinged, and Eames rose to go and pull a tray of freshly baked rolls out of the oven.

"Wow," Arthur said. Eames grinned and flushed. Or maybe it was just the warmth of cooking and the wine turning him pink like that.

"I'm glad that you didn't go out tonight," Eames told Arthur, mumbling the words so quietly that he almost didn't hear them. Only he did, and it solved the mystery at the same time it broke Arthur's heart a little.

That Eames would go to all this trouble in a bid to keep Arthur at home with him... well, it was equal parts flattering and saddening. 

"So am I," he said, because it was true and Eames deserved to hear it. He _needed_ to hear it.

It was a little disturbing that this evening here at home with his nephew was about a hundred times more romantic than his dinner out with Nash had been, Arthur thought wryly. But things were as they were, and he really was happy to be here. As weird and off the wall as this entire evening had been.

Eames had taken care of him ever since he had gotten home. Arthur was determined to take care of Eames for the rest of the evening. For the rest of their lives, in fact. But starting with the evening and the next day.

"This is delicious," Arthur said, indicating the entire meal as Eames brought the rolls over and rejoined him. "Thank you so much. Now, to show my appreciation, how about I take you out for a trip to the art museum and a nice lunch tomorrow?"

"Did you... you didn't have plans?" Eames asked, his face lighting up, but the pleasure tempered with anxiety. Arthur wanted nothing more than he wanted to erase that anxiety and leave only the pleasure.

"Nope," he replied honestly. "No plans aside from showing you a good time."

Eames flushed and buried his nose in his wine glass. He didn't really have anything to say to that, but they spent the rest of the meal conversing about what they had done that day and their plans for the following day. Arthur couldn't have thought of a better way to spend the evening.

Even if it was still more than a little weird. And even though he was still going to let Ariadne have it the next time he talked to her.

Never mind that she had procured wine for Eames, who was decidedly underage, but the least she could have done would have been to give Arthur a heads-up as to what he was walking into when he had gotten home tonight.

Still, it had gone all right. And if Arthur had his way, the rest of the evening was going to go just as well, and tomorrow would be even better.


	5. Chapter 5

"Oh, come on, like I was going to spoil the surprise!" was Ariadne's defense, and Arthur had to admit that it was a good one. Or it might have been if he hadn't been the person who'd been ambushed by a _bubble bath_ and _lobster dinner_. Not to mention....

"Ariadne, you bought him _wine_ ," Arthur said, as pointedly as was possible without snapping. He wasn't really angry at her; he just needed to make sure that she didn't do anything like this again.

"Well, okay, that part might have been a mistake," she admitted, sounding a little rueful. They were talking on the phone, Arthur lounging on his bed in his pajama bottoms. Eames had already retired, after dinner, dessert, and some television, but Arthur was feeling too wired to sleep, despite the relaxing bath, and he'd called Ariadne in the hopes that she'd be done showing Robert her etchings. Evidently she had been, since she had picked up.

"You think?" Arthur tried not to sound snarky, really he did, but a little snark might have snuck in. 

"I _was_ right to trust him, though," she put in, sounding more certain of herself now.

"Well, he could hardly have kept it for himself when you were likely to ask me about it later," Arthur pointed out a little dryly. "But, yes, he's trustworthy. It's not that. It's just... you couldn't have given me a heads-up?"

"What about? He just wanted to make you a nice dinner without you having to buy the ingredients and spoiling his surprise," Ariadne said.

"There was a bubble bath and candles," Arthur sputtered. "You can't tell me that you didn't at least get him the bubble bath. I'd have noticed if he'd put that in the shopping cart while he was out with me."

Ariadne was laughing wildly, which didn't exactly endear her to him in this moment. "Oh, my God, I wish I'd seen your face!" she hooted. "Aw, he really didn't want you to go out tonight."

"That's sad, not funny," Arthur informed her, a little stiffly. 

"I know." She sobered up immediately. "Yeah, I got him the bubbles; I figured they were for him. Suppose I should have known better when everything else he had me get was for you. Guess he really wanted to make tonight special."

"Maybe a little more special than I'm comfortable with," Arthur had to confess.

"I think it was sweet," Ariadne argued. "Did the chocolate mousse for dessert turn out?"

"Oh my God, did you know _everything_ in his plan?" Arthur asked, and, yes, he sounded a little grouchy. He thought he was entitled.

"Well, obviously not, if the bubble bath was a surprise," Ariadne snickered. "Sounds like he set up a really nice evening in for you, Arthur. You shouldn't complain. That's better than I've gotten from some of my past boyfriends. I'm sure you can say the same."

Arthur could feel his ears heating up and he was grateful that Ariadne couldn't see him. "Problem being, Eames is my nephew, not my boyfriend," he said sharply.

"No, this is a relationship that will actually last."

"Owch." Arthur contemplated hanging up the phone, but he wasn't going to let her get away with what she'd just said. "That was uncalled for, Ariadne. It's not like I'm sitting here sniping at you for having Robert over tonight, or the fact that half of _your_ relationships haven't lasted as long as half of _mine_!"

"Okay, sorry, that was bitchy of me," Ariadne said, and to her credit she did sound apologetic. "And I didn't mean it the way it sounded. I just meant that I worry about you sometimes, okay, Arthur?"

"Hmph." 

"And it's nice that you have Eames now," she persisted. "So far you've been taking care of him, but it sounds as though he's going to start taking care of you too. It's a _good_ thing."

"If that was what you meant, you really need to work on your delivery," Arthur said dryly, but he knew he had already forgiven her. Sometimes she didn't express herself as clearly as she might but Ariadne always meant well.

"And for the record," she added, as indignant as though it had been her insulted, not Arthur, "I would say that _most_ of my relationships have lasted longer than _most_ of yours. None of that half bullshit."

"How are things going with Robert?" Arthur asked, as much because the direction their conversation had taken had reminded him and because he cared, as because he wanted to change the subject from himself and the romantic dinner Eames had prepared for him. At least his nephew hadn't offered to give him a backrub with oils or something after dessert, Arthur thought, but a bubble bath? Really?

"Good," Ariadne replied, and she sounded cheerful but not overly excited, which actually bode fairly well for Robert's chances. Pretty much any time she got really enthusiastic the whole thing went down in flames, and quickly. "He only put his foot in his mouth twice, and I only had to point it out to him once."

Arthur rolled his eyes.

"And don't think I can't hear you rolling your eyes at me," Ariadne said tartly. "I know your opinion on Robert, okay, Arthur? But you promised to give him a chance, and that's what I'm doing. I'm giving him a chance."

"Yeah, yeah." Arthur sighed, then he yawned. It was Friday night and he was ready for bed. It was sad when he wasn't even quite thirty yet, but there it was. Well, but he was full of rich, delicious food, and he'd taken a hot bubble bath and spent a comfortable evening relaxing with Eames. So it wasn't really so surprising that he was sacked out and ready to crash, even though it wasn't yet midnight. Kind of pathetic, but not surprising.

He briefly considered inviting Ariadne along to the museum with them tomorrow, maybe even extending the invite to include Robert, but it seemed like something special, something for himself and Eames alone, so he didn't. Ariadne probably had plans anyway, with or without Robert.

On the other hand, he did think of something he wanted to mention to her, before they ended the conversation.

"I can't believe you got Eames a red wine to go with lobster," he said, trying not to sound as judgmental as he felt.

"Oh my God, you wine snob!" Ariadne choked. Then she laughed lightly and Arthur could visualize her shaking her head, her expression fond. "It's not as though I don't know better. The plain truth is that by the time I realized I should have gotten a white I was already in the checkout line, and I wasn't about to go and change it out. Sorry."

She didn't sound very sorry, but Arthur had already made his point. Both about the fact that she'd gotten a red wine with seafood, and about the fact that she had bought his underage nephew said wine.

"Just don't do it again," he said, referring to the second fact rather than the first one, even though that had been the one they'd been talking about. "Oh, and, Ariadne?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"It _was_ a nice surprise," she said softly, and he could hear the smile in her voice.

"Yeah, it was," he admitted, because he knew she wanted to hear it. And because it was true. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Arthur."

***

Arthur was not surprised when Eames crawled in bed with him a little before midnight, but he _was_ growing worried and it was a bit disconcerting. It wasn't yet becoming a habit, but it had happened too many times now for his peace of mind.

"Sorry," Eames mumbled, pressing in close without any pretentions to shyness, and letting out a heavy sigh when Arthur's arms automatically slid around him, holding him close. "Bad dream," he offered, and to be fair he did sound like he was still half asleep.

"What was it about?" Arthur asked, running a soothing hand over the line of Eames' back, less awkward than he thought he might be, smiling faintly when he could _feel_ the tension melting away from the boy's body.

Eames was quiet for so long that Arthur wondered if he might not just fall back asleep on him, but then he finally replied, his voice a little hoarse.

"Dreamt that my grandfather was alive again... or still... or something. And he ordered me to come back to England and live with him."

Arthur grimaced into the darkness over Eames' head. "Well, that wouldn't happen," he said as firmly as he could. "I'm your legal guardian, your mother named me in her will, and you're not going anywhere." He thought about that for a moment, then added, "Not unless you want to, that is."

"Don't want to," Eames said urgently, his arms tightening around Arthur and his face burrowing into his neck. "Happier here than I've been since it was just Mum and me. And you pay me more attention than she did." Eames swallowed tightly, then continued. "Not that it was her fault. She was working two jobs, right? To keep me fed. So it wasn't as though I could complain."

"Of course not," Arthur assured him, feeling his heart ache for younger Eames, and wishing that he'd thought to send Moira some money from time to time. It hadn't ever crossed his mind, and, well, it was too late now. "I'm fortunate in that I've got a very good job."

"Not just fortunate," Eames mumbled, and he sounded more wakeful than before, but still drowsy. He was heavy and warm in Arthur's arms, and Arthur couldn't help the fact that he liked the sensation. A lot. "You're super smart. Even smarter than Mum, and she was smart too. And you know how to apply yourself better than she did."

"That's a very astute observation," Arthur said, trying not to sound as surprised as he felt. 

"Maybe," Eames sounded as though he was smirking. "But it's also partially some things Ariadne said."

"Ah." Arthur paused, then decided not to just leave the subject there. "Well, I think you should know that she told me that _you_ were very smart too. At least as much as I am. And I agree."

"Really?" Eames sounded startled, and that made Arthur sad. "Mum always said so, but she's my mother, so she has to say things like that. Grandfather always said...."

Eames let this thought trail away and Arthur didn't pursue it. He didn't really care what that hateful old bastard had thought.

"Eames, I can pretty much guarantee you that anything negative he said to you was a load of shit," Arthur said decisively, still rubbing soothing spirals on Eames' back. "No one is perfect, of course, but you are so much better than he was."

Eames loosed a weak little chuckle. "Yeah. He was always badmouthing Mum too," he mumbled. "And she was wonderful, even if she wasn't perfect, like you said."

"You see?" Arthur squeezed Eames, only for a moment, but he wanted to offer him more comfort than mere words could express. "I know it's tough to forget the bad things and to ignore what someone in a position of authority said, but you really should try to forget most of what he said to you."

"I'll try," Eames promised.

"How long were you living with him?" Arthur asked, curious.

"Since I was eight," Eames replied, verifying that Arthur's guess had been pretty close. "Mum lost one of her jobs, so she couldn't keep up the rent. Then she lost the other one and kept getting and losing jobs while we were living with grandfather. It wasn't her fault, though. It was the economy."

"I'm sure it was," Arthur replied, hoping he sounded convinced and not as though he was humoring his nephew. He certainly knew how that went. He hadn't just been indulging in hyperbole when he'd told Eames he was fortunate to have the job he had now. He had worked hard to get where he was, of course, but he'd spent his share of time desperately job hunting early in his career, and it had been sheer luck that had netted him his first position, the one that had given him the opportunity to prove himself to the people who mattered.

"What about you?" Eames asked, shifting to snuggle a little closer. It was surprisingly easy to lay here, pressed together in the dark, talking. Even though Arthur didn't know if it was a good idea. Still, it was a little late to protest now.

"What about me what?" Arthur asked, because he didn't think Eames wanted to know his job history.

"Who did you live with while you were growing up?" Eames asked, and his fingertips were trailing light patterns over the muscles of Arthur's upper back. It was distracting and titillating, and Arthur knew he ought to ask Eames to stop, but he couldn't bring the words to his lips. "Mum said that neither of you ended up with your mother...."

"Ah, that." Arthur nodded. "No, our mother couldn't be bothered to raise the children she'd birthed." He thought he managed not to sound too bitter over this fact; it had been a long time ago, after all. "I was taken in and raised by my father's older sister and her husband, as though I was their own. My father vanished the same as my mother did, but I was lucky enough that his sister was far more responsible. I actually call them Mom and Dad, even though we all know they're my aunt and uncle. They're more parents to me than the two who had a hand in making me."

He didn't feel as though he'd had such a hard lot. He'd been raised by two people who loved and supported him, and who had helped him pay his way through college. That was more than a lot of people had. He preferred to dwell more on what he'd had given to him than what he hadn't had. And he was intelligent enough to recognize that he'd been a million times better off with his aunt and uncle than he'd have been if either of his biological parents had taken him. Who knew where he'd be now if they had. Nowhere good, he was sure of that.

"They live on the other side of the States," he continued. "But I definitely want to take you to meet them someday. They'll love you, and Mom will probably spoil you rotten."

Eames curled close, silent, probably processing this glut of information. His fingers were plucking at the material of Arthur's teeshirt, and his breath was warm and moist against his collar. 

"Any more questions?" Arthur asked, trying to sound as inviting as possible and not as though he was tired of this subject. It was interesting to him, to hear about Eames' background, and he was pleased that Eames wanted to know about his own in return.

"Did you have any siblings?" Eames asked after a moment of silence. "Well, obviously there was Mum. I meant... did your aunt and uncle have any other kids?"

"No," Arthur replied, and because he wanted to be honest, and he wanted Eames to know he wasn't going to hide anything from him -- happiness or sadness -- he continued. "I used to ask and they both swore that they didn't take me in because they couldn't have kids. I mostly believe them, but I don't even care. If that _had_ been the reason, even subconsciously, it wouldn't matter, because it still worked out the best for me. They both love me and I love them."

"Sometimes it doesn't matter why someone did something," Eames murmured. "Mum didn't get pregnant with me on purpose, but she always told me she never for a second regretted having me. And I believe her."

"Of course," Arthur answered immediately, giving Eames another squeeze because he wanted to. "Whether you were planned or not, she always wanted you. She was making sure you'd be cared for even before you were born. She named me your legal guardian when I wasn't even old enough for it to be, well, legal."

Eames was silent for a long, long moment. 

"I wish... I wish with all of my heart that my Mum was still alive and that I was still living with her," Eames said, voice a little unsteady. "I really do. But since she isn't, since she can't be, I'm so, _so_ glad that I've got you."

For one of the first times, Arthur felt like he knew just what to say. "You know that I wish your mother was alive too, right? But like you said, since what happened... happened... I'm really grateful to have gotten the chance to get to know you, and I'm really glad that she named me your guardian."

"Really? I'm not an imposition?"

"No!" Arthur couldn't help the shock that colored his tone, and he didn't even try to hide it. That Eames could even think this.... "Absolutely not. How could you even ask?"

"Well, it's not as though you asked to be stuck with me. And I don't contribute anything--"

"Eames," Arthur interrupted before he could continue any further in this vein. "Don't think like that. First of all, I might not have _asked_ to be your guardian, but when Moira asked me, I agreed, and I don't regret having agreed. And, secondly, you contribute plenty. The house has never been so clean and I haven't had to lift a finger. Not to mention, I enjoy talking to you and sharing the cooking, and it's really nice not to be lonely all the time."

"You were lonely before?" Eames asked hesitantly. 

Arthur chuckled. "I didn't know I was, but... yeah. If I think about not having you here anymore, it makes me feel terrible. I don't know what I'll do when you go off to college."

"College?" Eames sounded startled, and no longer sleepy in the slightest.

"Don't worry about that yet," Arthur reassured him, fighting not to grin widely over Eames' head. "That's years away. You haven't even started school here in the States."

Eames was silent for long moments and Arthur wondered what was going on in his head, but he wasn't going to ask. Now would actually be a good time to suggest Eames go back to his own bed, but Arthur didn't have it in him to do that. He just... he just really _liked_ holding Eames close. He enjoyed savoring his warmth and breathing in the scent that was unique to Eames. At this point it wasn't sexual, was only sensual. And it made Arthur feel good to know that Eames was willing to seek this closeness out, that he enjoyed being so close to Arthur in turn.

"Was... was everything okay tonight?" Eames asked, and it was a change of subject, but Arthur didn't mind. 

"It was great," he replied honestly, even though he was still a little weirded out by the whole thing.

"You're not angry about the wine?"

"I was a little pissed off at Ariadne," Arthur admitted. "But I told her so and then got over it. I'm not upset with you."

"Even though I asked her to get it for me?"

"Even so."

"Okay." Eames gave a heavy, contented sigh. Then he curled even closer to Arthur and _nuzzled_ his neck. There was no other word for it. "You smell good," he murmured, his voice low and husky. "Like the bath oils."

"You mean the bubble bath," Arthur replied with some amusement, trying to quell his automatic, natural, carnal response to Eames' actions and tone, because he knew his nephew, his _nephew_ , hadn't meant it that way. 

"Yeah." Eames yawned and made no move to shift away, only leaned into Arthur and seemed to become heavier. "G'night."

"Goodnight," Arthur whispered in reply even as Eames' lips brushed lightly against the skin of his neck. Eames sounded like he was ready to fall asleep within moments, but for Arthur it was going to be a very long, very frustrating night.

It wasn't, though. Even though he felt as though his body was humming with unresolved sexual desire considering the way that Eames was lying against him, draped partially over him, Arthur found it was a simple thing to relax and tumble over the threshold of slumber into a dreamless sleep.

At least he thought it was dreamless. Certainly he didn't dream about fucking his nephew. Because that would have been so incredibly wrong.

Especially when he was lying in bed asleep, pressed so close to his young body.

Also wrong, for the record, but it was too late now.

And the worst part was that he couldn't bring himself to regret it.

***

The trip to the museum went better than Arthur might have imagined, and for that he was glad. After all, it would hardly have been a treat for Eames if it had gone poorly, and that was what Arthur had intended it to be. A day out as a treat, to thank Eames for the way he had treated Arthur when he had gotten home the evening before.

Though it did end up being a very good day for Arthur as well.

Arthur knew a fair amount about art, even though he wasn't an artist himself, and he found himself in the unexpected position of sharing this knowledge. He thought that he managed not to sound as though he was lecturing, and Eames seemed eager to listen, didn't seem to mind the lectures. 

"I looked at some of your books, at home," Eames said to Arthur while they were having a nice lunch in a restaurant a block away from the museum, once they'd looked their fill. "But nothing really stuck. You _know_ all of that information. I want to learn it too."

Arthur nodded, inwardly thrilled over the fact that Eames had just called the house they shared _home_. Granted, he'd been living there for about a month, but at times Arthur had been very afraid that Eames might never come to accept it as his home.

"Feel free to borrow any of the books, if you want to read them in your room," he offered. "I doubt I'll need one, but if I do I'll ask. And be sure to let me know if I can help you in any way. Maybe we should go and get you a library card."

Eames nodded, seeming amenable to this idea, but he said, "Not today, though, okay? I'd rather go home and do some working out... together?"

Arthur couldn't help grinning. "Absolutely. I've got some new moves to show you. And then you can help me make dinner. Although... you _did_ make dinner last night...."

"I want to help," Eames blurted, wide-eyed and frantic, as though he was afraid Arthur might snatch back a proffered favor. "I want to spend the rest of the day together."

Arthur was torn between feeling pleased that Eames wanted to spend the day with him, and being a little concerned over the same fact. He remembered that Ariadne had warned him about the way that she felt Eames had fixated on him. On the other hand, Arthur was really enjoying spending time with Eames today, so why shouldn't it go the other way as well?

It wasn't as though Arthur didn't know about Eames' daddy issues, but what was to say they had to factor into the day's activities?

"That sounds like a plan," he said, smiling and not allowing any trepidation he might be feeling to creep into his voice. "Once we're done eating here, let's go to the Farmer's Saturday Market to get some fresh foods for dinner, yeah? Then head home and do some hand-to-hand. And after dinner we'll do whatever you want. You treated me last night, so I want to treat you today."

Eames turned a sweet shade of pink and ducked his head, mumbling something inarticulate. But he was smiling in return, and he glanced up to meet Arthur's gaze, looking as much thrilled as bashful.

"Thank you," he said with adorable earnestness.

This time Arthur didn't feel the slightest bit guilty about his overwhelming desire to hug and hold Eames. But since they were on opposite sides of the restaurant table, he wasn't able to do so. So he just smiled back and replied honestly.

"You're more than welcome."

***

The rest of the day passed just as pleasurably. Arthur enjoyed the hand-to-hand training with Eames. Maybe a little too much, but it was nice to see Eames learning quickly, picking things up almost instinctively with minimal instruction from Arthur. Arthur rarely had to explain himself twice.

It was the same with preparing dinner. Arthur set Eames the task of making them their salad, and was pleasantly surprised to find that it was probably about the best salad he'd ever had, despite the fact that it was a side dish. Not only did Eames use a spring mix they'd bought fresh at the market, but he mixed in arugula, baby spinach, and some shredded iceberg lettuce to keep it from being overpowering. To this base, he added artichoke hearts, cucumbers, tomatoes, and a scattering of black olives. Eames tossed it with a smidge of oil and vinegar, so they didn't even need dressing of any sort.

Arthur made them beef, done to their individual preferences, cooked in a barbeque marinade his Dad -- well, technically his uncle, but he was Arthur's adoptive father so he was "Dad" -- had taught him; when Arthur had been Eames' age, in fact. Arthur wondered if he ought to teach Eames how to make it, but Eames was busy with the salad and there would be time later. Besides, he couldn't be sure yet that Eames would even like it.

He needn't have worried about that last. Eames loved it and wasn't shy about letting Arthur know. It was quite a change from the first night after he had arrived, when he'd been prepared to eat beef he considered to be badly underdone rather than speak up and make his opinion known. It was a _good_ change.

"I wasn't sure whether you'd like it," Arthur demurred, but without false modesty, because he didn't believe in that. "It's a little tangy."

"That's what I like about it," Eames protested, and he certainly seemed to be digging into his meal with gusto. Arthur was pleased to note that Eames was eating his salad as well as the beef. Balanced eating was one thing Arthur had never had to nag his nephew about. "It's about a billion times better than any of the weak excuses masquerading as barbeque sauce back in England, trust me."

Arthur nodded, allowing himself to grin broadly at Eames because he had made a resolution to try to smile more, and because he was unaccountably uplifted to hear Eames call the country he had lived with his mother "England" instead of "home". It was a little thing, and it might not even matter, but anything that indicated to Arthur that Eames felt he was at home here, with Arthur, made him feel happier.

Well, not as though Eames hadn't flat-out told him so. Because he had. But the unconscious hints were just as satisfying as bald statements, maybe even more so, and Arthur loved it whenever Eames let one slip out.

"I can teach you how to make it," he offered, enjoying the way that Eames' grey eyes lit up. Whenever Eames found something he liked, instead of passively enjoying it he tended to want to find a way to mimic it or to do it himself. While they had been walking through the art museum, Eames had spent the time when Arthur wasn't talking trying to figure out how he could duplicate the techniques used by the artists there. It was something that impressed Arthur, and it gave him a warm glow to know that he was related to Eames, that he was his guardian now.

Eames was going to be an amazing man, he was already an incredible teenager, and Arthur was proud to not only know him, but to know that he was going to have a hand in raising him. It was still sad that Moira was dead, but Arthur was going to give Eames chances that she never would have been able to offer her son. He still wasn't completely sure that he wasn't going to fuck things up somehow, but he at least knew that he would do the best he could for Eames at the same time.

By the time they had finished dinner, Eames had promised to show Arthur all of his in-progress paintings, and Arthur was grateful that he'd thought of the trip to the art museum. 

They set the dishes to soak and went into Eames' bedroom. It smelled of sweet candles and powerful oil paints. Arthur grimaced, even though it wasn't very strong, but he knew that since he had asked, Eames was sure to be opening the window while he used them. Unfortunately, this didn't do much about the scent once he was done, while the canvases were drying. Arthur started thinking about whether he could set up a studio in the work shed or maybe the dojo, even though both these outbuildings were already pretty well in use, and the shed had no windows.

"Wow," he blurted as he laid eyes on the first painting. Seeing the art in Eames' sketchbook had been impressive, but it was nothing compared to what the boy could do with color. "That's amazing."

Eames' ears turned pink and he seemed to be searching Arthur's face for sincerity, but Arthur was too busy staring at the incredible painting to do anything other than note this in his peripheral vision.

"It's... I'm not done yet," Eames mumbled, nipping at his lower lip and flapping a hand toward his creation. "That one's for Ariadne and she said to paint what I feel, not what I see. The ones I do for the house and dojo will be more controlled."

Arthur couldn't help grinning and reaching over to wrap an arm around Eames' shoulders, giving him a little squeeze. "They're going to be great," he said warmly, "If this is any indication. And I'm sure it is."

"I... I started one for the master bath," Eames offered, pulling out a second painting, that had been propped against the side of the desk, carefully resting on a line of paper towels to protect the carpet.

Arthur boggled. "That's not done yet? I could frame and hang it right now."

Eames let out a loud, honest laugh. "This is just the background!" he protested, waving the painting around in a way that made Arthur want to grab it and hold it carefully like the precious thing that it was. "Needed to cover all of the canvas, see? This is sloppy and not meant to be seen but in patches through the foreground."

Arthur bit his lip to stop himself from arguing. If Eames said this was just a background then it was just a background. Arthur had learned the hard way how to deal with artists, from his years of being friends with Ariadne. If he said anything now, Eames would likely take it as a slight against his ability. Even though Arthur thought that the under-painting was gorgeous by itself, Eames intended to put something even better over top of it. For Arthur to say anything against this would just hurt Eames' feelings. Instead of being flattered, he'd likely be offended.

Or, well, that might all be wrong. But judging by what he knew from Ariadne and what he knew of Eames' personality, Arthur was pretty sure that it was a damned good guess.

Making a mental note to himself to sneak in here and take a photo of the unfinished painting if there was _any_ way he could manage it, Arthur simply nodded and said as calmly and evenly as he could, "Well, like I said, if this is what the unfinished product looks like, then I know they're all going to be gorgeous once you're done."

Eames turned red, then paled slightly, and Arthur couldn't figure out why until he blurted, "Don't get your hopes up too high, okay? I'm... I'm not _that_ good."

"Arguable," Arthur replied, but he reached over and gave Arthur another one-armed hug. "Don't get stressed out about it. Just do what you think will look good in any given room and that'll be fine. Don't chase perfection, because perfection doesn't exist and if it did, it would be boring as fuck."

Eames stared at him a long moment, then flashed a bright grin. "Yeah, okay," he said, ducking to put the painting back where it had been resting, then wrapping his arms around Arthur's waist and resting his head on his shoulder. "Thanks," he said, his voice a little muffled as he spoke into Arthur's shirt collar.

"No problem," Arthur replied, even though he wasn't quite sure what he was being thanked for, as he wrapped his arms around Eames in return and held him close.

***

With the smell of oils and thinner in Eames' room, Arthur felt he could hardly begrudge his nephew when he crept into his bed the next couple of nights running. But he still couldn't completely condone it, and he definitely didn't feel it was a good idea. Not when Eames was hot and solid and delicious in his arms, and one or both of them woke up hard the following morning.

And especially considering that this last happened _every_ morning.

Arthur was spending a lot more time in the shower than he had used to. Not that it took him long to get off; not the with scent of Eames and the memory of how he felt in Arthur's arms emblazoned on his senses. Arthur knew that he was a horrible person and a complete pervert, but there was nothing that could keep his mind off of Eames in those intense moments while he was jerking off and coming down the drain.

It wasn't as though Arthur _liked_ feeling like a huge pervert. But he couldn't change the strong and undeniable pull of attraction he felt toward Eames. It didn't help anything that it was as much mental and emotional as it was physical. The more he grew to know Eames the more he came to care about him. To love him.

It had been only a little more than a month, but Arthur knew that he loved his nephew. The problem came when he might have cared about him in ways that no guardian should feel about his charge.

Arthur could have sworn that his sheets were beginning to smell as much of Eames as they did of himself. And not just in the mornings, after they both woke wrapped in one another's arms, but when Arthur first went to bed alone in the evening. Even when they were freshly laundered. The only thing Arthur could think of was that Eames was sleeping in his bed even when he wasn't in it himself, perhaps seeking comfort while Arthur was at work during the day, and that thought made him ache with both sadness and sexual arousal, and it also made him begin to contemplate ways he could effect a change.

It was for Eames' sake, because the boy shouldn't be so dependent on Arthur... but it was also for Arthur's peace of mind. Being so close to Eames all the time wasn't making him want his nephew any less; in fact, it only fanned the flames. And that was all kinds of wrong because, hello, _nephew_.

It got to the point that Arthur was so desperate that he made another call to Cobb. It wasn't that Cobb wasn't his friend... it was just that Cobb had made so many poor life choices that something in Arthur winced at asking him for advice. On the other hand, Cobb was the only friend Arthur had with children. So that made him Arthur's only option, even if he might not be the absolute best choice.

"So, I was thinking about getting Eames a pet," he put forward, once they'd gotten their greetings and inquiries about health and the health of their families out of the way.

"Don't do it, Arthur," Cobb warned, in a voice that sounded of dire doom and personal experience.

"Why not?" Arthur was startled into asking.

"Do you know what pets do?" Cobb asked, still sounding far more intense than Arthur felt the subject warranted.

"Provide companionship and foster a sense of responsibility?"

"They _die_ ," Cobb declared flatly. "And I don't think Eames needs any more of that to deal with in his life right now."

Arthur was silent for a long moment, "Cobb," he finally said slowly, "Did something happen to Phillipa's goldfish?"

"Evidently fish need a filter to survive," Cobb growled, and it sounded like something he'd been waiting to get off his chest for a while. "The guy at the pet store didn't tell me that. Why would they not tell you that when you're buying a fish? Especially when it's a fish that a little girl has carefully picked out and already named!"

Arthur tried not to smile, because it wasn't funny. It was tragic, at least for poor Phillipa, and even though Cobb sounded like a bad situation comedy right now, he did have a point about pets dying on their young owners.

"You _did_ tell Pippa it wasn't her fault, didn't you?" he asked.

Cobb's silence was answer enough.

"Cobb!" Arthur scowled fiercely even though Cobb couldn't see him. He'd be able to hear it in his voice, though. "You get off the phone right this instant and you tell her what happened, tell her it was your fault for not getting a filter. And then you have her call me. I want to talk to her."

"Okay," Cobb said meekly. "But it's not as though I made her feel like it was her fault," he felt compelled to add. "I just forgot to tell her it was _my_ fault."

"Come on, Cobb," Arthur said, perfectly willing to rake his friend over the coals if the mental well being of his beautiful young daughter was involved. "You and I both know Phillipa, and we both know that she's going to be blaming herself. Like I said, go talk to her, then have her call me."

Cobb sighed gustily but he did as directed. Or at least Arthur assumed that he did. It wasn't until almost four hours had passed and Arthur was in the kitchen cooking dinner with Eames that his phone rang and the screen read "Cobb".

Arthur quickly put on his hands-free and answered the call.

"Uncle Arthur?"

"Hey, sweetie," he greeted, already smiling at the sound of Phillipa's voice. He missed her, he could admit it. She was probably already bigger than the last time he had seen her; both she and her brother were at the age where they shot up almost daily. He thought that maybe they should all get together, now that Eames wasn't mourning his mother so deeply and painfully. When he wouldn't feel as though he was being forced to babysit, and when Phillipa wouldn't feel the need to "fix" him. Much.

"How are you doing?" Arthur asked, giving Eames an apologetic smile. Those wide grey eyes were fixed on him, but Eames flushed and looked away abruptly when Arthur caught his gaze. It was a strange reaction, but Arthur couldn't pursue or question it when he had to focus on his conversation with Phillipa.

"Okay," she replied equably. "Daddy said that you wanted to talk to me?"

"It's just that it's been a while," Arthur hedged. He had asked that Phillipa call him partially so that he could be sure Cobb followed up and told Pippa it wasn't her fault her fish had died, but it was true that he also just wanted to talk to her.

"Almost six months," Phillipa informed him, and Arthur had always known she had a good sense of time, but he was a little worried that she'd kept track. 

"That long?" he asked with an internal wince.

"Well, since you visited," she allowed. "We've talked on the phone a few times since then."

"I'm sorry," Arthur apologized, because he was and he wanted Phillipa to know this. "I should make more of an effort."

"It's okay," she assured him, and that was a great thing about Phillipa. She meant what she said, and so it really was all right as far as she was concerned. "I miss you, though."

"I miss you too," Arthur told her, bending over to check the roast in the oven. It was going to be done soon, but he didn't expect this would be a long call.

"Daddy said to tell you that he 'splained it wasn't my fault the fish died, but I already knew that," Phillipa informed him earnestly. 

"You did?" Arthur couldn't help being a little surprised, though he wasn't at all surprised by the fact that Cobb had gotten that little dig in there through the voice of his daughter.

"Uh-huh. I looked it up on the internet. Remember, you showed me how to use a search engine?"

"I did," Arthur confirmed, trying desperately to remember whether he'd enabled the child-safe firewall at any point, or whether Cobb had mentioned doing it. "So you typed in...?"

"How to care for a goldfish," Phillipa explained, and Arthur breathed a silent sigh of relief, since that query ought to be innocent enough not to bring back any perverted websites. Hopefully. "It said that you can't just put them in a bowl like we did, that they need a filter. Dad didn't know that, though. And I didn't think to look it up until Toppie was dead."

Arthur shook his head. "Well, now you know for the next one, right?"

"I don't want another goldfish," Phillipa said decisively. "They're pretty but they're boring. I want a kitty or a ferret, but Dad says no, absolutely not."

"Why do you think that is?" Arthur prompted. He never talked down to either of the Cobb children, and Phillipa loved him for that. James was too young to care yet, but Arthur didn't feel that it served any purpose to talk differently to children than he did to adults, as long as he never forgot that they _were_ children. Not that he hadn't dealt with plenty of adults who behaved like children in his time, of course. But baby talk was only fit for babies, as far as he was concerned, and Phillipa was no baby.

"Because they would be too destructive," Phillipa answered matter-of-factly. "Especially a ferret. And Dad says that even though I promise to take good care of a pet, that I'll get tired of the work and he'll end up doing it for me."

She sounded outraged, and Arthur had to agree with her, albeit a bit more mildly. "It's like he doesn't even know you," he offered sympathetically, and perhaps a little ill-advisedly.

"Well, a pet _is_ a lot of 'ponsibility," Phillipa allowed. "And I guess ferrets don't always smell so good. But they're so cuddly and cute!"

"Maybe you should stick to watching videos of them on the internet," Arthur offered. "And concentrate on getting something that you really want."

"I really do want a cat," Phillipa said seriously. "And it doesn't even have to be a baby; I could get a grown-up cat and that wouldn't be as destructive as a kitten."

"That sounds more reasonable," Arthur agreed, poking the potatoes. They were almost done, and so was the rest of the meal. "How about I put in a good word for you, yeah?"

"Daddy always listens to you," Phillipa told him, sounding happier now. "Even if he doesn't always take your advice. Sometimes he says later that he _should_ have, though."

Arthur couldn't help laughing. "I'm not surprised in the slightest. Listen, Pippa, I have to go because dinner's ready, but I'll make sure to see come and you soon, okay?"

"You promise?"

"I promise," Arthur assured her. Phillipa was doing better, but she was still struggling with the death of her mother, the same as Eames was, and like Eames it had seemed to manifest itself in a certain amount of insecurity. Arthur had never proved himself to be anything but reliable where Phillipa was concerned, and yet she still felt the need to extract a verbal promise from him. 

"Okay, I'll see you soon, Uncle Arthur. Love you!"

"I love you too," he said, using hot pads and pulling the roast out of the oven. "Bye, sweetie."

"Goodbye."

"Sorry about that," Arthur apologized as he hung up the phone. "I was expecting that call earlier."

Eames just bit his lip and nodded, and since the food was all ready to go, Arthur didn't press him for a verbal reaction. However, as they sat down at the table, Eames was biting at his thumbnail, which was something he did when he was nervous. Arthur wondered about that, and since he didn't like seeing Eames feeling any negative emotion, he flat out asked.

"What is it?"

"Nothing, it's nothing. I mean, what? Why are you asking?"

Eames tried to give him an innocent look, but it didn't really work. Arthur knew him too well to fall for that. 

Arthur stared at him, waiting.

Eames fidgeted, then gave in and asked. "I just... I thought that Ariadne said you didn't have a girlfriend."

Arthur had to clamp down quickly to avoid loosing an incredulous laugh, because, well, Phillipa was _six_. Eames didn't know that, though. And when Arthur thought back and skimmed his half of the conversation, he had to admit that he hadn't really said anything that would indicate that he was talking to a child. Not to mention the declaration of love and the endearments. It had probably sounded pretty suspect.

"That was my friend Cobb's daughter," he explained. There was no room for misunderstandings between them, and the last thing Eames needed was to think Arthur was keeping secrets from him. There _was_ one big secret, of course, but Arthur didn't intend that Eames ever, ever find out that Arthur was sexually attracted to his own nephew.

"Oh...." Eames let the sound out on a long exhale, and his lips pursed in a way that made Arthur's ears heat up; among other body parts. The boy really did have a mouth built for sin, and Arthur was sure that he would have noticed this even if he hadn't wanted to sin _with_ Eames.

But those were wrong, bad thoughts, and so he switched his attention to their conversation, to talking about Phillipa. And that killed his pending boner quite neatly.

"I'm thinking about visiting them soon," he put forward, digging into his food with gusto. It always seemed to taste better when he and Eames cooked a meal together. "And I kind of hope you'll be willing to come with me. Cobb's kids are a lot younger than you, of course, but I think you and Phillipa might get along. She's artistic as well. And very mature for her age."

Eames was frowning faintly, and Arthur felt his heart sink a little, but then he asked, "What kind of a name is Cobb?"

Arthur chuckled. "That's his last name," he explained. "His first name is Dominic."

Eames was looking at him curiously now. "So why don't you call him that?"

"Hm." Arthur actually had to stop and think about that a moment. The question had never really occurred to him before. "Well, maybe it reminds me of his wife who died, even though she called him Dom. Also, he can be kind of a dick sometimes, so I guess I want to sort of distance myself from him."

"So... he's more of a mate than a close friend?" Eames ventured, settling in to eat some of his own dinner.

"Something like that," Arthur agreed. "Ariadne is my best friend, of course. Cobb, I hardly ever see, and if it wasn't for the kids I'd likely see him even less."

Eames nodded, his brow still slightly furrowed, though he seemed to be feeling better about everything.

"Isn't it a little odd, that your best friend is a girl?" Eames finally asked, licking his lips and giving Arthur a look he really couldn't parse.

Arthur raised a brow. He didn't think he heard any echo of Eames' grandfather in his voice; it seemed to something Eames was honestly wondering. Now might be the perfect time to come out as gay, but it didn't quite feel right. And besides....

"What's odd about being close friends with someone of the opposite gender?" he asked. "It would seem a little sexist to me to assume that one's best friend has to be the same gender as oneself."

Eames blinked, looking a little startled, then thoughtful. "You're right..." he replied slowly. "Yeah, you're right. And Ariadne's pretty amazing."

"Did you leave behind any close friends in England?" Arthur asked, feeling bad that this had only just occurred to him. Not that there was much he could do about it; he'd already given Eames computer privileges, so he could email any hypothetical friends.

"Naw," Eames replied, giving his head a little shake. "Had some mates I hung out with, that I shouldn't've done. Trying to make my grandfather angry but it just made Mum sad. I wish... I wish I hadn't...."

Eames trailed off, and Arthur could feel the same tightness in his throat that had choked the words in Eames'. 

"We can't change the past," he offered, knowing it was harsh but true. "Still, you have a chance for a fresh start here. You'll be going to school once the new year starts. And Ariadne already considers you a friend, I hope you know."

"Really?" Eames sounded surprised by this, which made Arthur think he should have said something sooner. 

"Absolutely," he replied as firmly as he was able. And then, since Eames had been so startled to hear the Ariadne liked him, Arthur thought that he really should add; "I consider you a friend too, okay? I mean, I know I'm your uncle and your guardian, and it's definitely okay if you don't feel the same way. But even if we weren't related, I would enjoy spending time with you, and I would consider you to be a friend."

Eames looked more than surprised; he looked stunned. But then he smiled, ducking his head shyly and grinning broadly, his cheeks pinking. "I... I like spending time with you, too," he said gruffly. Arthur could be sure by now that Eames didn't sneak cigarettes, but he still had a bit of the smoker's gravely rumble to his voice. Maybe he'd smoked while hanging out with the wrong types in England. 

"It's..." Eames continued, fixing Arthur with a bright stare. "I mean, you never treat me like a child and you always have new things to teach me. I like that."

"That's good to hear," Arthur said, and he meant it. "Ariadne tells me I have a tendency to give lectures instead of conversing."

Eames frowned and shook his head. "No, it's not like that. You give me plenty of chances to say anything I want to and you ask me my opinion on the things you're talking about. If all the teachers in school had been like you, I wouldn't have skived off so often."

Arthur was smiling with a pleased swell of warmth at Eames' words, but he couldn't help raising his brows at this last statement. "I hope you're not planning on skipping any classes here," he said, as mildly as he could manage. "The principal of the school is a friend of mine -- he's the one who said it was okay for you to wait to begin going to school until summer break was over -- so I wouldn't want you two at odds."

Eames shook his head almost immediately. "I was being bad because of grandfather," he explained. "You're about the complete opposite to him, so I'll be good. Like I should've been for Mum."

"You know you're growing more mature when you can learn from your mistakes," Arthur informed Eames with an affectionate smile. "And for what it's worth, your mother probably knew why you were doing what you did. She was smart."

Eames looked sad. "Still wisht I'd been better."

"She loved you no matter what," Arthur said. "I know that one hundred percent. And she was proud of you. The few times we communicated, all she ever talked about was you and all the wonderful things you did. She loved you so much, Eames."

Eames looked as though he was going to cry, so Arthur stopped talking. But he hoped he'd gotten his point across, because it was true. Granted, he hadn't spoken to Moira since Eames had been about nine, so it had almost certainly been before Eames had started acting out, but he'd meant it when he'd said Moira had surely been intelligent enough to realize _why_ her son had been doing what he had done.

"Thank you," Eames said, so softly that Arthur could barely make out the words. He didn't ask for clarification of what Eames was thanking him for. It didn't matter. All that mattered was doing to best he could to make Eames feel happy and safe in his home; in _their_ home.

And that night, when Eames crawled under the covers with Arthur before his lamp had been out for even ten minutes, Arthur welcomed him with open arms, letting all notions of getting Eames a dog and banishing him from Arthur's bed slide from his mind entirely. 

This wasn't just something that Eames needed. It was something that Arthur had come to need as well.

And, anyway, as long as Eames needed this, Arthur was going to be willing to give it to him.


	6. Chapter 6

Spring was rapidly heading into summer and the weather correspondingly began to warm, as it did every. This was Arthur's favorite time, as he watched everything grow greener and felt the sun on his skin....

The problem was, both of these things seemed to be backfiring on him this year. 

Growing greenery meant that Eames did more lawn-work, his budding muscles flexing as he pushed the lawnmower around Arthur's admittedly large and unruly front yard. Additionally, the rising temperature meant that Eames was far more likely to wear a tank or even no shirt at all as he did this lawn-work.

Not that Arthur didn't enjoy the view. 

The problem being that he enjoyed it _far too much_.

By this point he was very nearly resigned to the way he felt about Eames. Not really, but it was easier than feeling as though he was the world's biggest pervert almost every moment of every day... and especially when they were together in bed at night.

Arthur had also pretty much given up the idea of getting Eames to sleep in his own bed. There were a few nights where he stayed up late working when Eames didn't turn up, when he probably drifted off in his own bed before Arthur retired. But even then, he generally tended to gravitate into Arthur's bed and his arms at some point before the morning.

Arthur should probably have protested by now, but since he hadn't said anything early on, he'd kind of missed his chance. He could hardly protest at _this_ point.

He didn't know what he was going to do when and if Eames began wearing less to _bed_ , though. The thought was equal parts titillating and terrifying. Arthur couldn't see any way to get out of finding out... and there was a part of him that couldn't wait to find out.

The very wrong, twisted part of himself. But a very real and honest part. He was just insanely grateful that no one else could ever know what was going on inside his head.

The words "unfit guardian" popped up in his mind from time to time, but it wasn't as though he ever _acted_ on his feelings, right? Aside from failing to make sure that Eames slept in his own bed, he was doing everything he could, making sure that Eames had everything he needed.

And maybe Eames _needed_ to share the bed with Arthur, right? It wasn't as though he was completely over his mother's death. Arthur was sure that he never would be. It was something too huge and too terrible to just be set aside and forgotten. 

As Eames proved, one Sunday afternoon when they were both doing some work in the flowerbeds that lined the front walk. Arthur didn't bother with much where landscaping was concerned, especially when Ariadne was the only one who ever really came out to visit him, but he did like to keep the walkway looking nice.

Arthur was weeding and Eames was planting the flowers that the two of them had chosen at the nursery that morning, replacing the ones that hadn't survived the winter. Eames was unusually chatty. It might have been the sunny weather, it might have been the feeling of doing something productive, or it might have been spending the entire day with Arthur, enjoying his complete attention. Heck, it might have been all three things, Arthur didn't care, he was just glad to see it.

"I like these," Eames was saying, patting the soil around the base of one particular plant stem. "Blue lobelias. They were Mum's favorites too. She always said--" Then he abruptly broke off, his face crumpled, and he dissolved into tears, all in a single instant.

Arthur didn't hesitate to scoot over there and sling an arm around Eames, pulling him into a half embrace. Eames hid his face in Arthur's shoulder, though it was unclear whether he was seeking comfort, whether he was embarrassed, or both.

"Is that why you chose them?" Arthur asked, even though he wasn't sure it was the right question to ask. But he couldn't tell Eames it was going to all right when it wasn't, really.

Eames nodded, swallowing hard and making an obvious effort at pulling himself together, though he didn't pull away from Arthur. "How am I not crying all the time?" he asked thickly. "How is it I can talk... talk about Mum being gone like it's _normal_?"

Arthur grimaced, but he actually did have an answer to this heartfelt question.

"The human heart isn't made to grieve all the time," he said, wrapping his arms around Eames even though they were both muddy and he was wearing gloves. "No matter how strong you are, that would be too much," he continued. "And, Eames, she would want you to mourn her, she would want you to miss her, but she wouldn't want you to feel that way all the time."

Eames sniffed, scrubbing at his face with his wrist. "If I were dead, I would want her to remember me and think about me all the time," he said, quiet and possibly a little ashamed.

Arthur wasn't about to judge him for this. "That's different, though," he said evenly. "You're her child. She's your mother, and that's something vital to your life and an unbreakable bond, but parents generally don't outlive their children. You should have had another fifty or sixty years with her in your life, true, but most of the time parents die before their children. It's more tragic when a parent loses a child." He hugged Eames tightly, and spoke the truth. "For what it's worth... if things had been reversed, I'm sure she would never have gotten over it."

Eames was silent a while. It was growing uncomfortable, sitting on the paved walkway, but Arthur didn't want to push Eames to move away if he wasn't ready yet.

"I was wrong," Eames finally said, a little gruffly, reaching up and scrubbing at his cheek with his wrist. "I wouldn't want her to think about me all the time. If I'd been the one to die, I'd have wanted her to move on. Mostly."

Arthur nodded. He liked to hear that, even though he'd completely understood Eames' earlier statement as well. "That's how she would feel about you, too, Eames," he said with complete assurance. "Yes, it hurts. Yes, you're going to be triggered and think of her and cry. But you can't live like that all the time, every day."

Eames raised his head and squinted at Arthur, reminding Arthur disconcertingly of Cobb. "How did you get so smart?" Eames wanted to know. "Both your parents are alive... right?"

"Yeah." Arthur nodded. "It's.... Well, partially it's from reading a lot. But also, even though I wasn't as close to her as a son is to his mother, I did have to deal with some grief of my own when Cobb's wife died. She was a very close friend and I still miss her. I know that doesn't compare, but--"

"No," Eames interrupted, his clear grey eyes fixed on Arthur. "Grief is grief. Maybe the intensity is lower and the healing comes faster, but you miss Cobb's wife the same as I miss my Mum. Just, you know, differently."

Arthur quirked a crooked grin, feeling as though it was safe now. "And how did _you_ get so smart?" he asked, not really teasing.

Eames smirked back, looking adorable even with his red-rimmed eyes and mud streaking one cheek. "I was born smart," he said archly. "My Mum told me so."

"Well, it's true," Arthur said, his smile gentling but not vanishing. "You do take after her, after all."

Eames no longer looked as happy as he had before, but he didn't look sad either. Mostly he looked thoughtful, and then he stretched a little and kissed Arthur lightly on the cheek.

"It must run in the family," he said, and it was almost cruel the way he reminded Arthur in this moment that, yes, they were uncle and nephew.

Still, it wasn't as though it was a bad thing to be reminded. Especially not when Eames had just _kissed_ him. Even if it had only been on the cheek.

"Let's finish up out here with the flowers," Arthur urged. "And then we can spend the rest of the day inside, doing whatever you want."

He'd tried his hardest to sound normal, but Eames still gave him a quizzical look as he pulled away, and Arthur fought the blush that threatened to rise.

"Okay," was all Eames said, though. And that was what they did.

***

"So, I wanted to ask you something."

Arthur and Eames were sitting at the kitchen table, the remnants of dessert in crumbs on plates around their elbows, Arthur doing some work he had brought home and Eames messing around with his sketchbook.

"What is it?" Eames asked, looking up and raising his brows. He looked older when he did that, which was better then when he looked younger, Arthur supposed. Eames was erudite and articulate in ways that surprised Arthur from time to time, especially considering the boy's upbringing and the fact that he'd admitted to acting out in the last year or two and skipping a lot of school. Well, Moira would have done her best by the boy, and Arthur knew that she'd always been as intelligent as she was attractive. They might only have spoken a few times, but they'd been on the same level when they had done so.

Eames had stilled his hand on his sketchbook, and he looked curious and possibly a little concerned. Arthur always felt bad, that Eames didn't feel he could completely trust Arthur or his place here, but he supposed that seven years of being put down by his abusive asshole of a grandfather was going to leave its mark. He only hoped that he would eventually be able to reverse that mindset.

Right now, though, Arthur had a question, and since he'd brought it up, he wasn't going to hesitate and drag things out for Eames.

"Why do you draw my hands so often?" he wanted to know.

Eames turned a vivid shade of tomato red and his lashes flickered, though he didn't look away from Arthur's face. 

"I, um...." Eames licked his lips, which actually didn't do much for Arthur's peace of mind. "They're very nice hands," he finished weakly, but with something that was very clearly complete honesty.

Arthur lowered his eyes, twisting his wrists, examining the hands in question. They looked normal to him. Not small or stubby, which was good. He kept his nails neatly trimmed, there was a streak of ink on his thumb, and he supposed that the fingers were graceful enough, now that he considered it, but....

"Let me see yours," he instructed, holding out his right hand toward Eames.

Eames looked startled and placed his own right hand in Arthur's before he could rethink the move.

Arthur cast Eames a quick grin, knowingly and unabashedly using his dimples in order to disarm. Eames looked a little flustered and his flush hadn't really faded, but he also didn't try to pull his hand away.

Arthur didn't see a lot of difference between the two of them. Eames' hand was younger, naturally enough. His fingers were as lean but maybe not as long. He kept his nails trimmed as well, though Arthur could see a little dirt under them from the gardening they'd been doing. There was a small callus on Eames' right middle finger that confused Arthur for a moment, until he realized it was from the way Eames held his pencil and how much time he spent drawing. 

There was something about this that utterly charmed Arthur, though he couldn't have said why. 

There was also a silvery-dark shadow on the heel of Eames' hand, which Arthur placed after a moment as being lead from the pencil, and as he looked closer he could see a few small scratches on the boy's knuckles.

"I thought I bought you gloves to wear while you did the roses," he said, frowning slightly at this last.

"Sorry," Eames mumbled, his fingers twitching and curling in a way that was probably involuntary.

Arthur grimaced, wondering if Eames would ever stop imagining that he heard criticism where there was none. "I just don't want you cutting yourself up," he said gently, running the pad of his thumb across Eames' abused knuckles. 

Eames shivered and when he moved to pull his hand away, Arthur let him.

"S'all right," Eames shrugged, giving Arthur a crooked little smile, his ears and the apples of his cheeks still pink. 

"You've got to take care of yourself," Arthur chided, even though he knew it probably would have been better to leave it alone.

"Why should I when I've got you to do it for me?" Eames asked impishly, his voice light but a bit husky, his eyes clear where they were fixed on Arthur's face.

Arthur snorted. "Yeah, and that's why I got you the gloves."

"Ooh," Eames' lips rounded in that tempting way that they did, his eyes also widening. Then he laughed lightly, eyes crinkling with humor. "Point taken."

Arthur wasn't so sure about that, but then, he wasn't sure what the point was at all anymore.

"By the way," he said, as Eames picked his pencil back up. "Unrelated, but what do you think about a pet?"

"What do I what?" Eames looked confused, as well he might, given the abrupt change of subject.

"Would you like to get a puppy?" Arthur asked, because he still thought that it might not be a bad idea, and that it might get Eames out of his bed every night and back into his own....

"No," Eames replied decisively, giving his head a shake. He looked as though he was sure of his reply. "I like dogs okay but I don't want one for myself."

"All right," Arthur said, letting it go. Dogs were a lot of work, and he didn't exactly care for the idea of cleaning up after one that used his carefully maintained yard as a toilet, or worrying about which plants had been peed on when he was out weeding.

"Besides," Eames added absently, grabbing his eraser, "Dogs smell, unless you bathe them regular. And I'm lazy."

Arthur laughed, because that just wasn't true. Not all dogs smelled. And Eames _definitely_ wasn't lazy. Neither Arthur's house nor his lawn had ever looked better, and he was getting used to having a neatly-packed and tasty lunch to take with him to work during the week.

He could have remained silent, but he knew he shouldn't. Because Eames had low self esteem, so despite the mocking laugh Arthur had given, he might well take any silence as assent. And Arthur didn't want that.

"You're not lazy," he said quietly, fixing Eames with a sharp look. "You know that, right."

He didn't phrase it as a question. Eames stared back, startled, then gave an uncomfortable shrug and turned his attention back to his sketchbook, his ears still burning. Arthur decided to let it go now, but he suspected they might revisit the subject in the future. In the meantime, he returned to his work and Eames messed around with his current drawing, adding shading to the bones of Arthur's wrist where he had once again drawn one of Arthur's hands, holding a pen this time.

And after all that, Arthur still felt that he had no idea why Eames spent so much time drawing his hands. But he wasn't going to ask again. It was flattering, in a way, he supposed. 

Strange. But flattering.

***

Friday nights in with a nice dinner and a movie had become the new routine. Sometimes Ariadne was invited over, but she never again had to go shopping for the food and wine; Arthur took care of that himself.

Arthur had to admit that even though he enjoyed having Ariadne over, even though it was wildly amusing listening to her banter with Eames about the most random things, he generally preferred it when she couldn't make it. And since her thing with Robert seemed to be picking up steam, she was absent more often than she was there.

It wasn't that they weren't still best friends. It was just that... well, Arthur liked having Eames to himself, that was all. Eames was _his_ , and while Arthur had learned to share long ago, despite being an only child, that didn't mean that he had learned to like it. Possibly getting back to that only child thing.

So Arthur purchased the ingredients for Friday night with the rest of their groceries, whatever Eames put on the list, and Eames had dinner waiting when he got home from work. There were no more bubble baths and dinner was no longer a complete surprise, but Arthur did open a bottle of wine each Friday night to share with Eames. He liked how it made Eames flush an adorable shade of pink, and how Eames got so giggly and cheerful when he was a little buzzed.

And... well, Eames also got noticeably more physically affectionate when he had a glass of wine or two in him. Arthur never let him have more than maybe three at the most, and usually less than that, but Eames had zero tolerance, and he did get handsy. Not with Ariadne, thankfully. He was far more easy around her than he had been at their first meeting, but there was still a marked difference in the way he treated her and the way he melted all over Arthur when he'd had a glass or two of wine.

Sometimes Arthur thought that he was a horrible person, for letting Eames have wine at all. But it would have been rude if he drank it and didn't share after Eames had gone to all the trouble of cooking their dinner, right?

Of course, the thought that he could have just not bought any wine at all did occur to him... once. But he pushed it quickly out of mind and forgot about that possibility. It wasn't that he felt he needed it; he'd never used alcohol as a crutch and he liked his job, most of the time, so he wasn't looking for an escape. It had just somehow become a part of the new Friday night routine without him quite realizing it.

Besides, cuddly Eames was never not going to be a good thing. Even though Arthur should have been the responsible one here.... But then, with the upbringing he'd had and the "father figure" he'd been forced to endure, Arthur felt that Eames needed the physical closeness more than he did. Moira had been the sort to hug and hold her son, Arthur knew, because Eames had told him. But his grandfather hadn't been, and Arthur was willing to bet everything he owned that even if he had been, Eames wouldn't have wanted such attentions from the man.

It was sweet and somehow comforting, that Eames was willing and eager to crawl into Arthur's arms when they were watching their movie. And so whether it was healthy or not, Arthur encouraged it. Though he did tend to think it was more healthy than not.

Hey, if he was going to be the focus of Eames' daddy issues, he was going to do so in a way that benefited them both. It wasn't as though he had the expertise necessary to help Eames _rid_ himself of these issues. Being abandoned by his father before his birth and living with an abusive bastard of a grandfather the last few years had obviously left him with a huge hole in his psyche. 

Arthur thought that maybe filling it with his own presence and love would be better than trying to eliminate it; especially when he had no idea how to go about any such thing.

Tonight they were watching a heist film, and Eames was riveted. He was also draped across Arthur's lap, one hand plucking at the seam of his jeans, his cheek squashed against the arm of the sofa, his other cheek and ear looking a little flushed where Arthur could just barely see them, his hair a chaotic mess. Arthur had one arm slung around Eames' stomach, feeling the heat and solidness of him through the thin material of his teeshirt, and the last of the wine in his other hand.

Arthur couldn't even remember what he had done on Friday nights before Eames moved in with him, but it couldn't possibly have been this enjoyable. So maybe it wasn't only Eames who was benefitting here.

Eames had plenty of commentary for the movie as they watched it. Despite the fact that he seemed to be enjoying it, he had several ideas on how the characters could have handled things better or more smoothly. And they were _good_ ideas.

"You'd make a great career criminal," Arthur mentioned, and maybe the wine was affecting him a little too. He set the glass aside; it was empty now anyway. "Don't go getting any ideas, though."

Eames chuckled, a low sound that rumbled through his ribcage under Arthur's hand. He couldn't help but find that to be sensually pleasing, even though he damned well knew better.

"You'd be aces at it as well," Eames said, twisting a little to grin at Arthur over his shoulder. "We could work together. Everything would be perfect and we'd never get caught."

Arthur grinned back. "I said don't get any ideas," he repeated, running his fingers through Eames' hair, ostensibly in an attempt to tame it, but he really just wanted to feel how soft it was.

And, okay, so he could admit it; Eames wasn't the only one who got handsy while buzzed.

"Mm." Eames shifted, scooting up and squirming until he was pressed against Arthur, back to chest, one of his lean legs slung over one of Arthur's. Arthur automatically wrapped his arms around Eames' waist, holding him close, and they watched the rest of the film that way. Eames' fingers traced over the bones and sinews of Arthur's hand where it rested on his belly, and Arthur could smell that Eames had showered before he'd gotten home, that he'd made something chocolate for dessert, and over and under and through it all he could smell teenage male. That last shouldn't have been as arousing as it was, but Arthur wasn't going to lie to himself.

Once the movie was finished Eames seemed disinclined to move and so they sat there, discussing its finer points, agreeing that the final scene had fallen flat, and the conversation shifted more from how to pull off a successful heist to how to create a satisfying film.

"Ariadne thinks you ought to give theatre a try, once you start going to school," Arthur mentioned, and he absolutely was not nuzzling Eames' fine hair and his temple, but it was a close thing. 

"Really?" Eames sounded surprised. "What's she basing that on?"

"I think mainly on how well you can mimic people," Arthur answered. "Not that that's something that would necessarily translate into the ability to act, of course. But I'll bet you'd be good at acting too. The real question is how you'd feel about getting up on a stage in front of an audience."

Eames was silent in thought for a long moment, then he shifted slightly, hand closing more tightly around Arthur's and his head turning on his shoulder. "Well, it's something to think about," he said, and Arthur couldn't tell from his tone of voice whether he meant it or whether he was just humoring Arthur. It didn't really matter though; they were warm and comfortable and neither of them wanted to move.

It occurred to Arthur that once Eames started going to school, he'd be making friends, and these quiet Friday evenings together would probably become a thing of the past. The thought stabbed at his heart, even though he knew it was for the better. Eames _ought_ to have friends his own age. He was going to get himself a girlfriend... or _maybe_ a boyfriend, Arthur still wasn't sure. That thought was even worse, imagining Eames falling into bed with another teenager, even though Arthur damned well knew it was the natural order of things....

"What's wrong?" Eames asked, rousing himself and twisting to peer at Arthur in concern.

"What?" Arthur asked dumbly.

Eames frowned at him, pulling out of Arthur's embrace and moving to straddle his lap, his hands on Arthur's shoulders, peering intently into his face. "You got all tense all of a sudden," Eames said earnestly. "I just said I'd think about taking theatre."

Arthur winced internally. Eames was far too perceptive for Arthur's good, but there was no way that he could tell him the real reason he'd gone tense underneath him. Crap.

"It's nothing important," he hedged, trying for a half truth. "I was just thinking about you going to school, hoping it's not too big a change from going to school in England. You have to promise to tell me if you have any problems of any kind, okay? No being stoic or thinking you don't want to be a bother. If there's anything making you uncomfortable, even if you don't think it's anything I can affect, you tell me. Please."

Eames' eyes were wide, and he looked both incredulous and flattered. "All right," he replied slowly. "I don't know what sort of baby you think I am, though. I'm not in primary school. I did run with a rough crowd a bit back in England; I'm not some delicate flower."

Arthur winced because that was all true and he shouldn't need reminding, and also because he didn't exactly like hearing it even if it was true. He didn't like to think of Eames falling in with the wrong crowd here, whether he could hold his own or not.

"I just worry," was all he said though, because he had to trust Eames, that he was speaking the truth and that he'd be smart enough to stay away from trouble. 

"Thank you," Eames said. "For worrying," he clarified. "Even though you don't need to," he added, then he leaned in and gave Arthur a tight hug.

Arthur held Eames in return, until he felt those soft but firm lips press against the line of his neck in an unmistakable kiss. 

"Let's go and have dessert," he blurted, somehow getting them both up and off and sofa without tumbling Eames onto his ass on the floor.

"Sorry," Arthur thought he heard Eames mumble as he grabbed his empty wineglass and hurried them both into the kitchen, but he didn't acknowledge it, because if he did he'd have to specify why such an innocent gesture of affection from his _nephew_ had gotten him so flustered, and he just couldn't do that. 

They had their dessert and continued to talk, seemingly normally, but that night Eames didn't come to join Arthur in his bed, and he woke the following morning, completely alone.

Arthur tried to tell himself it was a _good_ thing, that he didn't feel in the slightest bit bereft, that it was about time Eames spent the entire night in his own bed....

But he couldn't help the relief that flooded him, the joy singing in his heart, when the very next night, Eames crawled under the covers like nothing had happened and cuddled in close.

Arthur was pretty much damned by this point, he knew. But it was such exquisite torture.

***

Arthur knew that Eames wasn't overly excited about visiting Cobb. Still, they'd been invited, he'd promised Phillipa, and it wasn't as though he was going to just leave Eames at home. Ariadne might have been willing to watch Eames -- if she wasn't busy with a certain someone -- or Arthur might even trust Eames to remain alone, but there was no point to that. Cobb wanted to meet Eames, and Arthur figured he ought to broaden Eames' circle of acquaintances here in the States outside of himself and Ariadne.

"It's not as though I'm asking you to sit at the kiddy table or anything," he said as they drove toward Cobb's roomy, airy house. Also out in the countryside, incidentally, though not as remote as Arthur's was. "You're welcome to hang out and converse with me and Cobb rather than spend time with Phillipa and James. In fact, I'm sure that both you and Cobb would prefer that, even if Pippa might not. Cobb doesn't have a lot of friends his age either, and you're closer than his kids are."

Eames snorted a little laugh at that last, though he still looked uptight, sitting in the passenger seat. He was trying to hide it, true, but Arthur could see it in every line of his body. It was a wonder, when Arthur thought back to how he hadn't been able to read Eames at all immediately after he had arrived. Now he knew him as well as he knew anyone else in his life, and better than most.

"Just don't mention suicide or throw around the word 'crazy' like it's nothing, and you'll do fine," he continued, watching out of the corner of his eye as Eames gnawed on his lower lip. He hated seeing him do that.... It was kind of sexy and adorable at once, true, and it reddened up the already plump swell. But it meant that Eames was nervous, and Arthur didn't like it when Eames was nervous.

"Oh," Eames let out in a little exhale, shooting him a curious look, and Arthur supposed that he could tell Eames all about it, about how Mal had died.... But the fact was that it was still a painful subject that he didn't really want to talk about. Eames had lost his mother, so Arthur was sure that he could understand.

"Did Cobb design our home?" Eames asked as they pulled into the drive and parked, his eyes wide as he surveyed the house before him.

"Good eye," Arthur approved, inwardly thrilling over the fact that Eames had called it _their home_ , and not Arthur's house. Evidently he still wasn't used to it, even though Eames did it all the time now.

"Well, I remember you saying he was an architect," Eames demurred, unbuckling his seatbelt. "I just figured he'd want to design his own house, and I can see the similarities, even though ours is smaller. And nicer."

Arthur laughed lightly. "But you're not prejudiced at all."

"Not at all," Eames replied earnestly, but with an impish spark in his grey eyes.

Arthur made it about halfway up the walk to the house before he was hit at crotch-level by a tiny blond whirlwind.

"Uncle Arthur!" 

With a skill born more of self preservation and good reflexes than experience, Arthur scooped James up before he could hit anything too tender.

"Hey, James," he grinned, and the side of James' skull met his jaw a little painfully as the boy threw his arms around Arthur's neck in an enthusiastic hug, but better his jaw than his dick. "How have you been?"

"Good! I started school and I'm learning about math and writing even though I don't like it much, and Phillipa got a pet, and Daddy made me clean my room for your visit even though you're not even going to be going in my room... are you, Uncle Arthur?"

Arthur waited a beat, just to make sure that the flood had actually paused and he really was expected to reply. 

"Well, I don't think that was the plan," he said cautiously, grinning at Cobb where he could see his friend and Phillipa waiting on the front patio. "But it's always good to keep a clean living space."

James pulled a face, then squirmed to get down. "I need to show you something!" he declared, dashing into the house. Arthur wasn't clear on whether he was supposed to follow, but he was busy greeting Cobb now.

"Cobb, Eames," he introduced, as though he was going to be walking up to the house with some other fifteen year old boy by his side. "And, Eames, this is Phillipa."

Phillipa peered up at Eames from slightly behind Cobb's sheltering form, a little shy around a stranger, but Cobb offered Eames a square hand.

"Hey," he said, smiling, and Arthur always forgot how handsome Cobb was when he went without seeing him for a while. Thankfully, Cobb wasn't his type, though they were pretty good friends. Not as close as before Mal's death.... But that had changed a lot of things, for everyone who knew her.

"Hi," Eames gruffed, shaking Cobb's hand firmly, then smiling down at Phillipa, sweetly but also a little shy. "Hello, Phillipa."

"Hello," she echoed, giving him a somewhat disconcertingly thorough once-over, a speculative look on her face. Arthur was well aware of how intelligent she was, but he did tend to forget how much she looked like a tiny blonde version of her mother, until moments like this reminded him.

"Do I get a hug?" Arthur asked, brows raised. "Or are you too old for that now?"

That seemed to be all the impetuous Phillipa needed to bring her out from behind Cobb. She went up on tip-toes to hug Arthur around the waist, and he resisted the urge to sweep her up off the ground the way he had done her brother. Six might be a little old for that, and she hadn't indicated it was welcome, though she was squeezing him tightly enough.

This was the point at which James charged back out, waving around a new plastic dinosaur that Arthur _needed_ to see, _right now_ , and Cobb attempted to steer everyone inside, and things pretty much devolved into the chaos that always happened around Phillipa and James, even though they were fairly well behaved as far as children went. But Arthur did see Eames solemnly shaking Phillipa's hand out of the corner of his eye as he attempted to give James the majority of his attention, so he kind of figured that Eames had passed muster with Cobb's daughter.

It relieved him more than he had expected, though he couldn't have said why. Still, he was happy to see it, and he thought that things just might be all right tonight. Especially when he heard Phillipa ask, "Do you want to meet my kitten?" as the five of them made their stumbling, tumbling way into the house.

The fact that she offered Eames this treat before she asked Arthur didn't really sting. Arthur was just glad that she evidently approved of his nephew.

And he was even more pleased and relieved when Eames graciously accepted.

He and Cobb shared a quick but sincere smile over the heads of their respective wards, and Arthur felt the tension between his shoulderblades that he hadn't even been aware of relax.

This was going to be a good visit, he could already tell. He was glad that he had come, and even more glad that he'd been able to bring Eames.

And most of all he was glad to have Eames in his life.


	7. Chapter 7

"I'm really sorry about that, Eames," Arthur said as he drove them toward home, the words coming out heartfelt, even though Eames hadn't voiced a single complaint. But, well, Arthur had forgotten how _boring_ Cobb could be. And the kids... were just kids. Not really stimulating company for a fifteen year old.

Everything had gone smoothly enough, Arthur thought ruefully, but it just hadn't been a very interesting evening. Hanging out with Ariadne was a lot more fun, and the three of them always had a lot more to talk about. 

Eames didn't reply, and glancing over, Arthur could see that he had one hand clasped over his mouth. He was just wondering why when Eames loosed a low sound. Arthur knew Eames too well by now to fail to recognize the noise as a stifled sob.

Without even thinking about it, Arthur flicked on his turn signal and pulled into the empty parking lot of a convenient grocery store. Shutting off the engine and unbuckling his seatbelt, he turned to Eames.

"What is it, baby?" he asked, already reaching for his nephew, pausing only as long as it took to free Eames from his seatbelt as well before he pulled him into his arms.

Eames shook his head, but he leaned into Arthur's embrace, hiding his face against his neck, his fingers clutching at the front of his shirt. This was familiar, but that didn't mean that Arthur liked it; he always hated when Eames cried. 

He assumed that this breakdown had something to do with Moira -- seeing as they'd just been in the house of a family who had lost their mother and wife -- but now he needed to find out what had set Eames off.

He sort of regretted taking Eames to visit the Cobbs, but... well, what was he supposed to do, avoid every social situation because Eames' mother had died? Granted, Mal's death was liable to hit a little too close to the bone, but Arthur really hadn't thought Cobb had said anything at any point that might have reminded Eames of his own loss. That left the kids. It had to have been something Phillipa or James had said, he concluded. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" Arthur prompted, after a couple of minutes of rubbing Eames' back, as he swallowed down the last of his choked sobs.

Eames sighed and shifted, but made no move to pull away from Arthur. Finally, "I was talking to Pippa," he rumbled, fingers smoothing over the line of buttons running down the front of Arthur's shirt. "About our mothers."

"Yeah?" Arthur wasn't surprised. He'd figured it would be something like that after all.

Eames was silent longer, and Arthur wondered if his spine was beginning to ache as badly as Arthur's was. He had no intention of letting go of Eames, though, not until the boy indicated he wanted out of his arms.

"I don't..." Eames faltered, then sucked in a deep breath and rallied. "I can't remember what the last thing I said to Mum was."

"Oh." Arthur kept his wince internal, but now he could understand why Eames had broken down. "I'm sorry."

Eames sighed and moved his cheek, possibly because the shirt underneath it had gotten damp. Arthur didn't mind being a human tissue for Eames, though, if it gave him any comfort at all.

"At least... we weren't fighting," he said, his voice husky. "I'd have remembered that. But I thought I'd see her once she got home. I didn't know it'd be the last time I--" he broke off and choked, but didn't break down in tears again. Quite. "I was just so glad that I was going to have the flat to myself for a bit, you know? That grandfather and his wife were going with Mum. I don't even know if I said goodbye to her, because I _can't remember_."

"It's all right," Arthur told him firmly. "I mean, it hurts, yes. But neither of you had any idea it was the end. So whatever you said, no matter what it was, it was just normal, everyday love."

That sounded so cheesy as the words left his lips that he really did wince this time. Sometimes he managed to say something pithy and truthful, but this time he just sounded like an idiot.

"Thanks." Eames didn't seem to think so, fortunately, and when he straightened and scrubbed roughly at his face with both hands Arthur let go of him. He didn't start the car, though, because he didn't think they were done talking yet. "Pippa and James said goodbye and that they loved their mother, before she... left."

Arthur reached over to smooth down errant strands of Eames' hair, which was kind of a mess even though he'd obviously made an attempt to tame it before they'd headed out for Cobb's place. "That's true. But they thought they'd see her when she got home too, the same as you. They're just younger so it's easier for them to say things like 'I love you' to their parents."

Eames bit his lower lip and nodded, his expression pensive. He seemed to be processing Arthur's words, though, which was the important part. 

"If it helps any," Arthur offered, though he didn't think it would, "Cobb was screaming at Mal in their last moments together. So he'll probably never forget what he said to her."

"Owch," Eames winced, biting his lower lip and shaking his head a little. "It doesn't really help, no. But... at least now I feel more sorry for Cobb than I do for myself."

Arthur grimaced. That wasn't quite what he'd meant, but Eames did seem somewhat comforted... albeit in a kind of awkward, unconventional way.

"Is it ever going to stop hurting?" Eames asked after a moment, his voice muffled, his eyelashes glistening with moisture in the light of the lamps dotting the parking lot as he stared straight ahead, out the windshield.

"Do you want it to?" Arthur asked with painful honesty.

"It might... be a nice change...." Eames swallowed audibly. "No, I don't want to forget her. But sometimes it hurts so much I just can't stand it. I don't know how it can hurt so much and all be inside me, in my heart."

"I'm sorry," Arthur offered again, feeling completely ineffectual.

"No, _I'm_ sorry," Eames said, sniffing and wiped his nose with the back of his wrist, then shooting a watery smile at his uncle. "It was nice meeting Cobb and his kids, really. I didn't mean to break down on the way home."

"Don't apologize," Arthur instructed firmly. "You suffered a crippling loss, and things are going to happen that remind you of this. It's not as though you choose the moments, right?"

"Of course not," Eames scoffed, sounding more like himself and less grief stricken. "If I could choose, then _nothing_ would remind me."

"Exactly," Arthur said, squeezing one of Eames' hands. "And it didn't help that I took you to a house where the two kids lost their mother recently, the same as you did."

"It was nice enough," Eames said. "I liked them. I just...."

Arthur nodded, feeling sympathy for Eames. But it was going to be easier to express it physically once they were out of the car, so he started the engine. "Let's just... let's just get home and get to bed, okay?" he offered.

"Sounds good," Eames replied, sounding far more enthusiastic than he had been a moment ago. 

They both knew that going to bed meant Arthur's bed. Tonight of all nights, though, Arthur wasn't going to begrudge Eames the warmth and comfort of his arms. 

Eames had already lost enough. It wasn't in Arthur to take anything more away from him.

***

"I'm afraid I have some bad news for you, Arthur," Cobb said over the phone when Arthur called the next day while on his lunch break in order to get Cobb's take on dinner the night before.

"What?" Arthur asked, feeling his stomach plunge, even though he'd thought that everything had gone well for the most part, aside from Eames' tears on the way home. At any rate, there was no way that Cobb was perceptive enough to see how Arthur felt about Eames in a very un-familial manner... right? If even Ariadne hadn't noticed....

"I hate to break it to you," Cobb went on, sounding completely serious, "But I don't think you're Phillipa's number one crush any longer. All she could talk about this morning was Eames."

Arthur let out a loud exhale, holding onto his temper because Cobb had made a _joke_ , an honest to God attempt at humor, and if it hadn't been for his own guilty conscience it wouldn't have upset Arthur at all. 

He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard Cobb make a joke like this -- certainly not since before Mal's death -- and so he gave a little laugh, even though his heart was still pounding too hard inside his ribcage. 

"I'll just have to carry on," he said dryly. "Somehow."

"He's a good kid, Arthur," Cobb added, still sounding just as serious, but actually meaning it now. "It's weird to think that you're related to a boy with a British accent who looks nothing like you, but...."

"But all our shared relatives are female, so there's no chance of mistaken parentage," Arthur finished for Cobb. "That was pretty much Eames' first reaction to meeting me, you know. Well, I look like my father and we can assume Eames takes after _his_ father. Moira didn't look much like me either. We were half siblings, after all."

"I always forget how complex your family situation is," Cobb said thoughtfully. He didn't sound judgmental, so Arthur didn't take offense. However....

"My family situation is simple," he said evenly. "Me, my Mom, and my Dad. It might be that they're not my birth parents, but they raised me and they did a wonderful job. I only hope I'll do half as well for Eames."

"You know what I meant," Cobb said a little reproachfully.

"I know," Arthur confirmed. "But there's the family we're born into, Cobb, and the family that we choose. Mom and Dad chose me, so they're my immediate family. And I might not have chosen Eames, but now that Moira is dead and I've gotten to know him, I wouldn't give him up for anything in the world."

"You really do love him, don't you," Cobb said softly, and he sounded affectionate, but Arthur's heart thumped again.

Damn his guilty conscience.

"I do," he replied honestly, because there was no reason not to. Cobb didn't need to know about Arthur's twisted, carnal fascination with his own nephew.

"I'm glad," Cobb continued, and he came off as even more affectionate, but he also used his 'fatherly' tone, which made Arthur bristle a little as he continued, "I was getting worried about you, Arthur. It's been years since your last serious relationship, and aside from occasionally having lunch with Ariadne, you were spending far too much time alone."

Arthur experienced the urge to snap at Cobb, to tell him it was none of his damned business, but he knew that Cobb meant what he had said, and that he really had been worried. He was one to talk... but then, Arthur had never lost the love of his life, had he. 

"Sorry," Cobb gruffed as Arthur tried to think of something to say that wouldn't be either bitchy or hopelessly sentimental. Cobb was really being remarkably perceptive; something Arthur wasn't used to after Mal's death. He took this as a good sign, was glad that Cobb seemed to finally be emerging from the brittle shell of his personal grief. If Arthur and Eames could help him with that, even a little bit, then Arthur was pleased.

"It's fine," he assured Cobb. "I know you and Ariadne were both worried about me. You didn't need to be, but now you definitely don't have to be. Well, not until Eames goes off to college anyway," he couldn't help adding, feeling the thought tug painfully at his heart.

"Good lord, Arthur, don't start sweating that _yet_ ," said Cobb, with all the confidence of a man whose own children had barely started their own schooling. "That's years away!"

"Only three," Arthur pointed out, but it wasn't a subject he wanted to pursue, so he let it go easily enough. "Eames had a good time last night," he offered, changing the subject as tactfully as he was able.

"I'm sure he was bored," Cobb said with a small laugh. He didn't sound self deprecating, just amused. "But it was great meeting him, and we should do it again."

"At my place this time. Maybe we can barbeque now that it's getting warmer," Arthur said, checking his watch. "Listen, Cobb, I'm sorry but I gotta go soon. I'm running out of lunch hour."

"Sure," Cobb replied smoothly. "Keep in touch, and let me know about the barbeque. Tell me what I can bring, whenever you decide to have it."

"Will do." Arthur and Cobb said their goodbyes and hung up, and Arthur got back to work.

He'd have to run the whole barbeque idea past Eames, of course, but he was sure that Eames wouldn't have any problem with it. And that way he could invite Ariadne too. She was a little edgy around Cobb's kids, but Arthur thought everyone would get along just fine. And maybe Yusuf could join them if he was back from his vacation by then.

Which thought reminded Arthur that Eames was going to have to go to high school as soon as summer was over... and that brought his mood down a little....

But as Cobb had said, there was no point to sweating it yet. And in the meantime, Eames was all Arthur's. And he intended to enjoy every moment of their free time together.

***

He might be crazy, but Arthur was starting to suspect that Eames was doing more than just sleeping in his bed. 

During the day, of course. While Arthur was at work. 

It was true that his sheets smelled like Eames all the time now. That was hardly surprising when the boy was sharing Arthur's bed with him every night. They didn't even bother any longer with the pretense of Eames going to his own bed to begin with. Either they retired together or Arthur joined Eames if he'd stayed up late working.

He still felt as though it was wrong, but.... Well, how could he deny Eames those quiet, dark hours of closeness and comfort? It didn't seem to be doing Eames any harm, even if it _wasn't_ doing him good. Which Arthur privately thought that it was.

On the other hand, it meant that Eames had to be doing his masturbating during the day, when Arthur was out of the house. And from the musky scent that pervaded Arthur's bedcovers when he first went to bed every evening, he had to wonder....

Teenage males often had a strong scent, Arthur knew. But he also knew that Eames kept himself clean, showering regularly every morning and after they sparred together in the dojo four evenings a week. Arthur might not have had any recently, but he knew the smell of sex, and that was what clung to his sheets.

It wasn't that he... _minded_ , so much as he was confused by it. Eames had the house to himself all day long, and he had his own bed, even if he didn't sleep in it at night any longer. He could have masturbated _anywhere_. Why would he jerk off in Arthur's bed? Especially since it would be harder to conceal any evidence there. He'd need to bring in his own lotion and tissues and take it all away with him afterward....

Well, Arthur did mind a little bit, because if it was true, it made things that much harder on him; literally. Sometimes he wondered if he was going to spend the rest of his life hard, without a lover, trying to find times and places to jerk off that wouldn't make it obvious to Eames that he was jerking off. 

The best opportunity for that was early in the morning, when Eames left their bed to shower. Since they both had a tendency to wake up with morning wood, and since Arthur was virtually certain that Eames was taking care of that in his own shower, it was the perfect opportunity. But morning wasn't the only time Eames made Arthur hard. Sparring could get quite hands-on and Arthur wasn't unaffected.

But anyway, for all his own difficulties in finding time and places to get himself off, Arthur had to wonder _why_ Eames was choosing to do so in Arthur's bed, of all places.

Of course, he might be imagining it all. But he was pretty sure that he wasn't. And that just left him wondering... why.

It wasn't as though he could come right out and ask Eames, after all. He might be shameless in the privacy of his own mind, but Arthur liked to maintain a facade of decency. Outwardly, at least.

***

The dinner at Cobb's had gone so well that when Arthur's boss, Mr. Saito, threw a sort of informal dinner party and "suggested" that Arthur bring his nephew, he had no qualms about asking Eames if he wanted to come along.

"Ariadne will probably be there," he offered, not to try to talk Eames into it, but just so that he had all the pertinent information. "She's dating Robert Fischer, who works for the same company I work for, in a different division. I can't imagine that he wouldn't bring her."

Eames gnawed at his lower lip a little, then nodded. "Yeah, okay."

"You don't have to," Arthur said, reaching over and squeezing Eames' upper arm, noting the firmness of the muscles under his hand. All the exercise and sparring that Eames was doing was really making a difference. "I can go alone, or even stay home. It's not a big deal. I only go to these things about half the time anyway."

"Your boss wants me to come, though, right?" Eames asked, reaching for Arthur in turn and sliding his fingers smoothly to twine with Arthur's.

"He specifically said I should bring you," Arthur said carefully. "That doesn't mean either of us _has_ to come. He's a nice guy and a good boss, as long as you don't get too familiar, which I don't. He'd like to meet you, but it doesn't have to be at this party. He won't hold it against either of us if you decline to come or if I stay away too. I could tell him we had other plans and he'd be fine with that."

"No," Eames said slowly, his fingers tightening in Arthur's. "As long as you aren't embarrassed to have me around your co-workers, I'll be happy to go with you."

"How could you think I might be embarrassed?" Arthur asked incredulously, brows rising. "Just stay away from the alcohol, and everything will be fine."

"I...." Eames chewed on his lower lip a little more and Arthur wanted to tug the pink swell free of Eames' charmingly crooked teeth, but he resisted that urge because it wasn't any of his business and if he did that then he might as well just kiss Eames. His _nephew_.

"Seriously, Eames," Arthur pressed.

"Well, it's not as though I was raised around classy people, right?" Eames asked gruffly, his eyes cut to one side, hiding behind his long lashes. "I can talk to you okay, and Ariadne. But other adults...? I'm not sure I won't end up looking stupid."

"So just talk to me and Ariadne, if you're worried about it," Arthur said, letting go of Eames' hand so that he could slip his arm around the boy's shoulders. "You'll do fine, though. I have faith in you. And I'll bet there'll be people there interested in things like your paintings or the martial arts lessons I've been giving you."

Eames' lower lip plumped. "But those are private things," he argued. "Things for you and me, and maybe Ariadne. Not for strangers." His gaze suddenly shot up to meet Arthur's. "Do... do you talk about those things to the people at work?" he asked urgently.

"No," Arthur replied instantly, startled by Eames' vehemence but responding honestly for all this. "I don't talk much about my personal life at work. I've spoken to Mr. Saito about you, of course, since I had to get him to approve my time off when you first arrived. But I don't gossip about you with people who don't know you."

Eames looked relieved.

"Although, if I were inclined to do so, I'd be bragging about you all the time," Arthur felt compelled to add with further honesty.

"Psht," Eames scoffed, his eyes darting over Arthur's features as though he was searching for the truth in them... or maybe searching for any lie. "There's nothing special about me."

Arthur's eyes widened. "The fact that you believe that frightens me a little," he said, frowning. "Don't you realize how wonderful you are, Eames? Ariadne and Cobb have both said so, and they're not the sort of friends who would bullshit me, or compliment you if they didn't mean it."

Eames was staring at him, lips round. 

"Besides which, I know how amazing you are, completely unprompted by outside opinions," Arthur continued, because he wasn't done yet. "I'm sorry if I haven't said it more often, so that you could have had a chance to internalize it."

Eames blinked at him rapidly, then flushed a bright pink. "Naw," he protested, trying to pull away from Arthur, but not so hard that Arthur was willing to actually let him go.

"Yes," Arthur said firmly. "You're intelligent and articulate, you're hard-working and talented. I won't go on, but trust me when I say I don't take these things for granted, Eames. Your grandfather was an asshole, but surely your mother told you all this?"

"But she was my Mum," Eames protested weakly. "She _had_ to say those things."

Arthur sighed. Clearly he'd been failing in his role as Eames' guardian all this time, if all of this was coming as a surprise to Eames.

"I don't.... I mean, I didn't believe everything my grandfather said," Eames continued hesitantly, while Arthur struggled to figure out what to say next. "But I kind of was a fuck-up. At least toward the end, there,"

"Socially, maybe," Arthur allowed. "But that doesn't negate your other good points. And you haven't gotten into trouble since you moved in with me."

"Haven't had much chance," Eames mumbled, but he gave Arthur a small, almost shy smile. "Thank you, though... for all the nice things you just said."

"I mean them," Arthur reiterated.

"Okay," Eames said, and he sounded as though he was only humoring Arthur, but Arthur didn't want to push too hard. 

"Look, just talk about the weather, all right?" he offered, giving Eames an affectionate squeeze before loosing him. "And if you get stuck with anyone you don't want to talk to, just give me a nod and I'll come rescue you."

"How about I don't leave your side the entire time?" Eames asked earnestly.

"That's a good plan too," Arthur replied with a grin.

And it was. It was too bad that wasn't what actually happened.

***

The party went smoothly for the most part, up to a certain point. The food was good, Mr. Saito was pleased to meet Eames and seemed to like him, inasmuch as Arthur could tell when the man was so reserved and guarded. And Eames stuck to Arthur's side like a burr for most of it.

It was about ten minutes after Arthur lost track of Eames that a slight problem came to his attention. Well, a potentially major problem was _brought_ to his attention, that was. And not in any way Arthur might have preferred.

"Hey, Arthur," Robert Fischer said, strolling over, wine glass in one hand, and no sign of Ariadne, even though Arthur knew she was here. Maybe she was in the restroom... or maybe with Eames, wherever he had gotten to.

"How are you doing?" Arthur asked politely, sort of wishing he had his own glass of wine so that he wouldn't have to shake Robert's hand. Not that this would have saved him, of course, since they both had two hands. It was a nice, firm handshake, which conversely annoyed him more.

"Pretty well," Robert replied, and the impeccable grammar was also annoying. "And you?"

"Good," Arthur replied, because to hell with grammar. Robert knew what he meant. "We're good."

"Glad to hear it," Robert said, nodding his head, sounding sincere. "So... how old is your nephew?" he then asked, in something of a serious non sequitur considering that Eames wasn't here, even though Arthur had just said "we". 

"Eames is fifteen," Arthur replied, trying his hardest not to dislike Robert in this moment. Because if Ariadne hadn't lost interest in him yet, she wasn't likely to for a long time, which meant Arthur was going to have to deal with him a fair amount in the future. "Why?"

Robert smirked, his crystal blue eyes sliding across the room as he tilted his head in the same direction. "You might want to go and interrupt that little conversation he's having with Jude, then," he suggested.

Arthur followed Robert's gaze and cursed flatly. 

"Shit."

"Just a thought," Robert said, smugly and completely unnecessarily, grinning into his wine, and Arthur was torn between being grateful for the heads-up and feeling that Robert was an absolute jerk for the way he'd delivered it. 

In the end he settled for growling a brusque, "Thanks," then headed for his _underaged nephew_ and the goddamned _predator_ who was in the process of chatting him up in a semi-secluded corner.

He was pretty sure Robert saluted him with his wine glass as he turned to go, but he didn't glance back to confirm this suspicion.

Jude was attractive in a sleazy sort of way, Arthur reflected as he strode across the wide room with purpose in every step. His eyes were a little more blue than Eames' clear grey, he had gold-tipped curls, sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and a curve of smooth confidence to his lips that some found to be extremely attractive. The English accent was probably reminding Eames at least a bit of home... but Jude was _not_ suitable company for a pretty fifteen year old who had no idea what a creep he could be. 

By the time Arthur reached them, Jude had one hand on Eames' upper arm, fingers flexing, thumb rubbing in an overly-familiar way over the muscles that Arthur knew were there, a wide grin on his face, and Eames was blushing pink up to the tips of his ears, his own plush lips curved in an answering smile, his lashes flickering. 

Arthur was _pissed_ , to put it mildly, but he reined himself in and made his best effort at being civil as he closed his hand around Jude's and tugged it free of Eames' arm. He didn't even break any of Jude's fingers.

"Hello, Jude," he said politely, smiling through gritted teeth. "I'd like a word with my nephew, if you don't mind."

Without waiting for a reply, because it would be a slight to Mr. Saito's generosity as their host if Arthur were to punch another guest in the nose, he swept Eames up in one arm and hurried him around the corner, a short way down the hall, and into the privacy one of Saito's bathrooms. Fortunately it was close and empty of other guests.

"What the hell was that?" Eames blurted, before Arthur could ask him the same question. Eames sounded more confused than angry, but he was definitely displeased, and Arthur scowled at him.

"You shouldn't encourage Jude," he snapped. "He's far too inclined to take advantage of anyone who'll let him."

"What do you mean?" Eames asked defensively, his own brow furrowing in a deep frown. "We were just talking."

Arthur snorted. "As if I don't know flirting when I see it," he growled before he could restrain himself. He gave his head a brisk shake, because now wasn't the time to give in to jealousy, no matter how strongly he was feeling it. "Look, I don't care if you're gay or if you're straight and just looking for a father figure," he continued before Eames could say anything. "The point is that you were flirting with Jude and he was flirting back. Even if you weren't my nephew and my responsibility, you're only fifteen. It's illegal, he's an asshole who would break your heart, and I'm not letting that happen. Any of it!"

Eames mouth was gaping open in disbelief by the time Arthur was done speaking, then his expression firmed and twisted. 

"I'm not a faggot--" he started furiously, and before Arthur could stop himself, his hand shot out and he slapped Eames across the mouth. 

"I told you not to use that word," he said, even though seeing the shocked, hurt look on Eames' face made him feel immediately guilty. He'd never laid hands on Eames in violence -- outside the controlled environment of their sparring sessions -- and the blow had been as much a result of his jealousy as it had been an honest response to Eames' use of that hated word, so he was probably right to feel guilty. 

He hadn't hit Eames hard, not by any stretch of the imagination, but the damage that he'd just done hadn't really been physical in nature. It had been emotional and it may well have damaged Eames' trust in him, in their relationship.

"Sorry," Arthur said, a little gruffly, as he reached out and wrapped his arms around Eames' shoulders, pulling the boy into a tight embrace. Eames didn't fight to get out of it, but he stood there stiff and still, not hugging Arthur back. Not that Arthur had expected he would.

They left the party immediately after this, Robert winning several points with Arthur as they passed him in the hall and he discretely promised to make Arthur's excuses to Mr. Saito, with absolutely no amusement or judgment coloring his features, his pale blue eyes expressing only mild concern at Eames' sullen silence and Arthur's flustered frustration.

It was possible that he wasn't such a bad guy after all, but Arthur had greater concerns than Ariadne's current beau. More personal concerns.

"Wasn't flirting," Eames said sulkily as Arthur drove them both home about ten miles over the speed limit. Faster than he usually went with Eames in the car, seeing as his mother had been killed in a car accident, but he felt the overwhelming need to get them both home as quickly as possible. 

"Well," Arthur said, willing to let that go, because without having been closer he couldn't be sure of what he'd seen, "Whether you were flirting or not, Jude _was_ flirting. He'll sleep with anyone pretty that he sets his eyes on, but he only dates women. You can't trust that man for shit."

Eames was quiet for a good fifteen minutes after that, and they were nearly home by the time he spoke again.

"You.... You slept with him?" he hazarded, his voice wobbling a little as he asked the question.

Arthur flexed his fists around the steering wheel. This wasn't how he'd intended to out himself to his nephew, but he couldn't very well lie to him now that Eames had actually asked, in as many words.

"Once," he replied tightly. "Years ago, before I knew better. He showed his true colors pretty quickly, though."

Which was all true, old history, and he wasn't even sure Jude remembered. Arthur himself wasn't much bothered by it anymore, but it would have been foolish not to have learned his lesson from that one encounter. He wasn't about to let Eames make the same mistake he had made. Eames was his _nephew_. Not to mention, he was _only fifteen_.

Eames was completely silent for the rest of the ride home, short as it was, and he remained silent while they entered the house. Arthur sighed, wishing that they had stayed home after all. Mr. Saito would have understood, and then Arthur would never have... never have....

"Eames, I'm _so_ sorry for hitting you," he said, before they parted in the hallway to go their respective bedrooms. "I swear I won't ever do it again. But when you used that word--"

"S'okay," Eames mumbled, and Arthur winced because his lower lip did look a little swollen. He hadn't thought he'd hit Eames so hard, but maybe Eames had been chewing on it all the way home. It was better to think so than to think that Arthur had actually hurt him. "Sorry for using that word," Eames continued, glancing up at him. "I didn't... didn't mean to."

Arthur didn't know if he bought that, but he was willing to accept it, along with Eames' apology. Especially if Eames accepted his own apology. Arthur certainly didn't want to get into another fight with Eames tonight. Bad enough that he'd slapped his nephew, that he'd outed himself, and that they were going to each be sleeping alone. 

He couldn't blame Eames, he thought sadly as he brushed his teeth and changed into his pajama bottoms. It probably weirded him out, knowing he'd been sleeping every night wrapped up in the arms of a homosexual, even if they were related. 

As he slid between his cold, lonely covers, Arthur pondered the fact that Eames was probably never going to share his bed again. It hurt more than he thought that it probably should.

Even if it was for the better, it still... well, it _sucked_.

***

Arthur didn't sleep much, and the sleep he did get was fitful. He woke the next morning feeling far from rested. It didn't help that every time he rolled over he got a whiff of Eames' scent on his sheets or pillow. 

He missed sleeping with his nephew in his arms, he could admit it.

He rose at the usual time, putting on his running clothes because he really hoped that this part of their day wouldn't have changed. He could smell coffee brewing, so he knew that Eames was already awake and at least partially adhering to routine.

He would apologize again, they would discuss the fact that he was gay if Eames wanted to, they'd get past this, and hopefully the only thing that would change would be that Eames would sleep in his own bed at night. Which they ought to have been doing all along, Arthur could admit.

All these plans, however, flew out the window when Arthur walked into the kitchen and found himself entering a scene of mounting carnage.

"Eames!" he blurted in shock and dawning panic as he took in the red staining the counter and soaking into the cloth caught between Eames' hand.

"Sorry," Eames mumbled, looking far too shamefaced for someone who was at risk of bleeding all over the tile floor. "The knife slipped." 

He jerked his chin toward a bagel on the counter that was so blood soaked that it looked like it was strawberry when Arthur knew damned well that they only had plain bagels in the house. That wasn't Arthur's immediate concern, of course. No, what _concerned_ him was the crimson-stained dishtowel Eames was clutching to his right hand with his left hand!

"Fuck!" he swore, leaping toward Eames. Even more quickly than he had gotten them out of Mr. Saito's house the night before, he got them in the car and on their way to the hospital.

"Gonna bleed on the upholstery," Eames mumbled, holding his hands tight to his chest, a fresh towel growing red far too rapidly for Arthur's peace of mind. Maybe it was Arthur's imagination, but he thought Eames' cheeks were growing white, either from shock or blood loss, and he was hard put not to speed so fast that he put both their lives in danger.

"Do you think I give a fuck?" Arthur gritted, cursing himself for living so far out in the boonies, but grateful that the nearest hospital was on his side of town.

They made it there in under five minutes with Arthur's lead foot, but they were the longest, most stressful five minutes of Arthur's life. Longer than the full minute after he had come out to his adopted parents and before they had spoken up to assure him they were fine with it, longer than the fifteen minutes of his first job interview, longer than his last day of high school....

Arthur had gotten Eames registered on his insurance as soon as he'd found out he was going to be his legal guardian, so there were no complications in the ER. They got Eames' hand dealt with quickly and efficiently, assuring Arthur that Eames was going to be fine, that he hadn't lost as much blood as it had seemed.

"Get some juice and food in him," the doctor instructed firmly but kindly, as though he was afraid Arthur was going to shatter to pieces in the waiting room. Well, he probably looked a wreck; wearing his jogging clothes, needing a shave, his hair a mess, haggard from a night without sleep followed by a morning of unexpected panic. 

It had been his pinkie finger that Eames had cut, deeply enough to have severed the tendon. The doctor seemed confident that physical therapy would fix things, but Arthur thought he was taking the whole thing far too lightly. It wasn't _his_ finger, after all. 

"S'all right," Eames slurred, once he was released into Arthur's care, clearly feeling the effects of the pain killers they had given him. His hand was swathed in clean bandages, but Arthur knew there were several stitches underneath the pristine white gauze, and his stomach turned at the thought of what had almost happened. "Don't use that finger for much anyway."

"Don't...." Arthur gave in to the overwhelming desire to wrap Eames up in his arms and hold him tightly for a moment, before they headed for the car and home. This time Eames hugged him back, though he was careful to keep his right hand out of the way. "Just don't," Arthur murmured, and he wasn't even sure what he meant.

Arthur drove them home at a much safer speed. Eames was smirking, gazing at Arthur with warm intensity. It was better than the guarded hurt that had been in his eyes the night before, but it still made Arthur a little edgy.

Once they got home Arthur helped Eames strip down to his boxers and tucked him into Arthur's bed. To hell with propriety. Eames didn't seem to mind, smiling sweetly up at Arthur.

"Sorry I cut myself," he repeated, reaching with his good hand and sinking his fingers into Arthur's collar, tugging. 

"Just don't do it again," Arthur said, his heartbeat finally beginning to slow to normal now that he had Eames safely home and in his bed. He leaned down as Eames pulled more determinedly at his shirt, assuming that Eames wanted another hug.

He was completely taken by surprise, then, as Eames' lips pressed against his own, mashing close for a moment of clumsiness, before easing off into a light but unmistakable kiss. It was largely chaste, closed-mouthed and no tongue, but it was still a _kiss_ , and fifteen year old boys generally didn't kiss their uncles on the lips... Arthur didn't think.

"Thanks," Eames breathed, plush mouth curving up into a sweet, goofy smile as he sank into the covers, lids growing heavy over gleaming grey eyes.

Arthur didn't know whether Eames was thanking him for the ride to the hospital, for the use of his bed, or for... the kiss.... But he did know that he suddenly smelled scorching coffee, and he made a quick retreat to the kitchen, reminding himself to get a new coffeemaker; one that shut itself off after a certain period of time.

He did his best not to think about the kiss as he pulled together a sandwich and some juice for Eames, but, really, there wasn't anything else he _could_ think about.

Loopy on pain meds or not, Eames wouldn't have kissed him like that if he hadn't meant it... right?

But what exactly did it _mean_?


	8. Chapter 8

Eames had dozed off by the time Arthur took him in his sandwich and juice, a victim of the strong medication the doctor had given him. Arthur couldn't bring himself to shake his sleeping nephew awake, so he set the food on the bedside table, covered it, and quietly exited the room. 

This left him at loose ends, left him in need of something to do to keep him from getting in bed with Eames. When Arthur was stressed out he tended to clean and since the kitchen counter was still spattered with Eames' blood, that was where he started.

Arthur could hardly believe that his hands were steady as he wielded the bleach and paper towels. He felt as though he was shaking to pieces inside. This was as close as he had ever come to losing someone so important to him. It was true that Eames was safe now and home, sleeping off his pain pills in the bedroom. He'd lost a frightening amount blood but not enough to have put him in serious danger. Still, Arthur couldn't help his brain wondering _what if, what if_....

It wasn't as though this was something he _wanted_ in his head. He'd have given anything to get the idea out of there. But once it occurred to him, it was impossible to banish.

Now he felt as though he had half an inkling of what Eames had experienced when he'd gotten the news about his mother's death. In a manner of speaking. Well, okay, this was actually just about the opposite of that. Arthur was dwelling on something that _hadn't_ happened, whereas Eames had needed to deal with something completely unexpected that had happened in an instant and couldn't be taken back. So... yeah, opposites.

But Arthur now had a taste of what it might be like to lose Eames, even if he had to use his imagination, and it terrified him. He wasn't sure how or when his nephew had come to mean so much to him, but clearly Eames did. Not that this was a bad thing, of course. It was a _good_ thing. But it was also terrifying. Because Arthur was solely responsible for Eames and his wellbeing, and he'd very nearly failed in that this morning.

The only thing keeping Arthur out of the bed Eames was sleeping in was the fact that the kitchen needed cleaning. It made his skin crawl to see the blood on the counter, to see the droplets that had landed on the floor even though Eames had valiantly tried to staunch the flow.

Once he was done with that, Arthur stood a moment, gnawing on his lower lips and thinking. He really ought to go in there and wake Eames, make sure he ate. Even though the drugs had made Eames sleepy, the doctor had said to feed him, and they had both missed breakfast. Arthur's stomach was in knots, but he was aware that he really ought to eat something himself. And yet, every instinct he had was urging him to ignore food, to go into his bedroom, to curl under the covers with Eames, wrap him up in his arms and never let go. He needed to listen to Eames breathe, to feel his warmth....

Arthur was just getting to the point of being _completely_ ridiculous -- visualizing Eames having a negative reaction to the medication the doctor had given him, when it had been nothing but a normal Vicodin -- and was seconds away from dashing down the hall to make sure he was still alive and breathing, when the phone suddenly rang.

He wasn't too proud to admit that he jumped. He _was_ too proud to admit that he might have squawked a little, but if he did, no one was around to hear him. 

His caller ID told him it was Ariadne, but he'd already been pretty certain of that. She was one of the only people who called his landline... which might have something to do with the fact that she was one of the only people who _had_ his landline number. She also knew that she was generally more likely to get a hold of him this way than on his cell during the weekend, hence her preference for using it.

He picked up automatically, since there was no real reason not to. "Hello?"

"Hey, Arthur," she said, sounding entirely too cheerful when he felt like he was about to crawl out of his skin. "How's Eames doing?"

"He's asleep right now," Arthur replied candidly, without pausing to consider how Ariadne knew to ask. "The pain pills put him to sleep before he could eat, but the doctor said the blood loss wasn't as bad as it looked, so--"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Ariadne blurted, all the cheer gone from her voice, which Arthur found a little gratifying even though that hadn't been his intent. "Blood loss? Pain pills? Arthur, what the hell _happened_?"

Arthur frowned. He was still rattled, he needed caffeine and food, and somehow he thought that they were speaking at cross-purposes.

"Why were you asking about Eames?" he wanted to know. Better to start at the beginning, after all.

"Because Robert said that something went down at Mr. Saito's party last night," Ariadne told him, sounding more than a little upset. "He said that you dragged Eames out of there and that you both looked unhappy. He was _worried_ , so I said I'd call. What did you say about _blood loss_?!"

Arthur reflected for a moment on the likelihood that Robert had really been worried and not just snoopy, in which case he'd underestimated the man -- unless he really had just wanted the scoop, in which case he was a creep -- but Ariadne's voice had squeaked dangerously at the end of her last question, and he knew that he'd better answer her quickly.

"Eames cut his finger this morning, slicing a bagel," he replied, and he was pleased and a little surprised to note that his voice didn't wobble, even though he was still feeling wobbly inside. "It was pretty bad, he severed a tendon and lost a lot of blood, but the doctor says he'll be okay."

"Oh, God," Ariadne breathed, sounding a little relieved but not completely. "Did he get stitches?"

"Of course," Arthur replied, frowning. His knees seemed to decide that now was a good time to give in to the shock that he'd been putting off up to this point, and he sank down onto the nearest chair, clutching the phone with white knuckles. "I only just got the blood cleaned off the counter."

"Do you need me to come over?" Ariadne asked without hesitation. She always knew how to read Arthur, better than anyone. Well, except maybe Eames, but Eames lived with him now.

"No," Arthur answered, even though it might have been a good idea. But if Ariadne came over she'd want to hug him and that might make him break down completely. Besides, if she was here, then Arthur wouldn't be able to get into bed with Eames. And after a lonely, restless night alone, and after seeing Eames bleeding all over the kitchen and himself, Arthur felt as though this was something he _needed_.

"Thank you, though," he added, aware that he'd maybe been being a bit abrupt. Even if it was understandable, he didn't need to be rude about it.

"I'll bring over dinner," Ariadne said, her tone brooking no argument. Arthur winced, but dinnertime was a good several hours away, so he didn't refuse. "I need to see Eames, to see that he's okay. You said he's sleeping now?"

"Yeah, sorry," Arthur replied. "Otherwise I'd put him on the phone. But--"

"No, that's all right, let him sleep." Ariadne paused, then, because she was tenacious like that, she asked again. "So, what _did_ happen last night? At Mr. Saito's party, I mean. Robert said Jude was hitting on Eames, but after that...?"

Arthur sighed. Still, better he talk about it now while Eames was sleeping than later in the day, once Ariadne got here, when Eames might well be awake.

"I called Eames on the flirting," he told her, "He said he wasn't a faggot, I slapped him, and then we left." He was already wincing, even though Ariadne didn't immediately start in on berating him. "On the way home he asked and so I kind of... came out to him."

"About time," was all Ariadne said, and she sounded as much affectionate as exasperated. "Let me guess; you feel bad for slapping him."

"I don't hit people, Ari!" Arthur agonized. "And especially not my nephew, who's my legal responsibility and who I love! That was-- it was completely uncalled for!"

Ariadne sighed, tinny over the phone-line but familiar to Arthur's ears and strangely comforting. "Arthur, not that I'm saying it was the right reaction, but don't beat yourself up over it," she instructed. "I know you've already apologized. Didn't you?"

"Right away," he replied honestly.

"And I'll bet you promised never to do it again."

"Of course!"

"And did Eames forgive you?"

Arthur bit his lower lip, but he couldn't deny it. "He did. But I shouldn't have--"

"For God's sake, Arthur," Ariadne interrupted. "Let it go! I mean, I get why you feel bad. I do. I'd feel like shit if I ever slapped you or Robert, much less Eames. But, well, he used the 'f' word, you reacted instinctively, and you apologized. Then he bled all over the kitchen this morning. You should forgive yourself and go and cuddle with him. Now."

Arthur blinked, sure he had misheard. "What?"

"We'll come by around six, okay?" she said, and Arthur barely made note of the "we" -- grimacing because it meant she was bringing Robert -- because he was still boggling over her instructions. Which she then repeated. "Go and hold Eames while he sleeps. You'll feel better, and I'm sure he will too. Don't let your guilt come between you; neither one of you needs that right now."

Arthur had something to say to that, he was sure of it. But nothing came to mind.

"Are you listening to me?" Ariadne demanded.

"Yes," Arthur replied, because he was. Even if he wasn't completely comprehending.

"Well, then get off the phone and go," she said, laughing a little. She wouldn't be laughing if she knew that Arthur had been holding Eames in his arms every night for almost the entire time he'd been here, and then jerking off in the shower in the morning to the thought of doing filthy things to his own _nephew_ , nor would she be encouraging him to join Eames in bed, but.... Well, but she _could never know_ those things. Not if Arthur wanted to retain her friendship.

"See you at six," he said, trying to speak normally through lips that had gone somewhat numb. 

"Give Eames my love once he wakes up, okay?" Ariadne requested earnestly.

"I will," Arthur promised, equally earnestly.

They said their goodbyes, and then Arthur hung up. He stared unseeing at the phone for long moments, breathing shallowly and trying to think of any reason he shouldn't do as Ariadne had directed. 

Well, there was the fact that Eames now knew he was gay and probably wouldn't want Arthur crawling in bed with him....

But then Arthur remembered all over again that _Eames had kissed him_. On the mouth, no less. And he was confused and had no idea what he ought to do.

So he did he only thing he could think to do. He went to obey Ariadne's directions. Because in all this topsy-turvy mess, that was the thing that made the most sense. And he was glad that he wasn't the only person who thought so.

He hadn't needed approbation, but it was nice to know it wasn't a completely unreasonable reaction on his part.

***

Eames was warm and sleepy. He did rouse slightly when Arthur joined him -- staying atop the covers, because he had to at least _try_ \-- his eyes slitting open, a small smile curving his plump lips as he turned toward Arthur, reaching with his good hand.

"You should eat," Arthur murmured, tugging Eames against his chest despite the awkwardness of the sheets and comforter catching and bunching between them. And, okay, so maybe he should have gotten under the covers with Eames, but it just hadn't seemed right now that Eames knew Arthur was gay... and definitely not after Eames had kissing him on the mouth.

Eames just made a small humming sound and nuzzled his way closer, and Arthur caved. If Eames wasn't hungry, Arthur hardly wanted to force him to eat. And his own stomach was still too tied up in knots to feel anything approaching hunger.

"Thanks," Eames rumbled into the line of Arthur's neck, the moist-hot gust of his breath raising gooseflesh over the surface of Arthur's skin. His fingers were tucked into Arthur's collar again, but this time he was only holding on, keeping Arthur close as he drifted off.

Arthur sighed, but it did make him feel a little less like a pervert, made him realize that he wasn't unwelcome in his own bed. Not if Eames wanted him here badly enough to cling to him this way.

He wrapped his arms around Eames and pulled him close, breathing in the powerful, pungent scent of him, which he had missed all night long. Eames sort of needed a shower, it was true, but to Arthur he still didn't stink. After all, he'd bathed before they had gone to Mr. Saito's, and he hadn't exercised or done anything too strenuous in the meantime... if one discounted cutting his finger nearly to the bone and having to be rushed to the hospital.

Turning his face toward Eames, Arthur let his nephew's messy hair tickle his nose as he pressed his lips against the thin skin at Eames' temple in a soft kiss. It was too much, going too far, but he couldn't help himself. He just... he _couldn't_. He'd come too close to losing Eames this morning. Even if it hadn't actually been as bad as it had looked, at least according to the doctor, it _had_ been a possibility. A very real possibility. If Eames had cut himself deeper, if he'd passed out and Arthur had slept in longer, if they had lived further away from the hospital....

Arthur knew he shouldn't be dwelling on this. He ought to put it out of his mind. And yet he couldn't get the image of potentially losing Eames out of his head. It ate away at him, and he couldn't think of anything else that might overwrite it or make it better.

So instead he lay there on his side, holding Eames close, rubbing small spirals on his back, soaking in the reality of Eames being here, safe and sleeping. He was nowhere near sleep, and yet there wasn't anywhere else he could have been.

There wasn't anywhere else he would have wanted to be.

***

Eventually the day wound its slow, lazy way into early afternoon, the hours sliding across them where they lay entwined on the bed the way the sun was moving across the sky.

Sentimentality and insecurity were all very well and good, but once the shock and worry had worn off, Arthur _was_ hungry. And despite the pills making Eames drowsy it was after lunchtime, he had skipped breakfast, and he was young. So eventually they both stirred and Eames woke enough to wolf down the sandwich Arthur had brought into the bedroom for him while Arthur made himself a sandwich of his own and joined him.

"Ariadne's coming for dinner," Arthur told Eames. He was sitting crosslegged on the mattress, with his plate balanced on his lap, and Eames was propped up against the pillows at the head of the bed. They were both probably getting crumbs on the bedcovers, but Arthur didn't care. He should probably wash them anyway; they were a tangled mess from all his tossing and turning the night before.

"Cool," Eames said, smiling. He was struggling a little, since he could only use his left hand, but he'd always been pretty close to ambidextrous so it was easier for him than it probably would have been for Arthur if he'd damaged his right hand. Still, Arthur regretted making a sandwich; he should have served soup instead, and then they could have eaten it at the table. 

"How does your finger feel?" Arthur asked, taking the empty plate from Eames and stacking it on top of his own.

"Hurts some," Eames said succinctly, looking down at his right hand and flexing the fingers that _weren't_ tightly wrapped. "But mostly it's just throbbing and the bandages feel too tight."

"Want another Vicodin?" Arthur offered, glancing at the clock to make sure it had been long enough.

Eames' brow furrowed slightly. "Not yet, makes me too sleepy," he said thoughtfully. "Maybe some ibuprofen, though?"

Arthur nodded. "I'll get you some. Do you want more juice?"

"I can get it myself," Eames mumbled, biting his lower lip and glancing up at Arthur through his lashes. "I'm not an invalid, and it was my own fault I cut my finger."

"Don't worry about it," Arthur said, shaking his head. "I don't want you risking bumping your hand or anything. And I don't mind fetching; it keeps me busy."

Eames grimaced, but he let Arthur bring him in more juice and some Advil. 

"I can't just lay in your bed all day," he said once he'd swallowed the ibuprofen. He licked his lips, and Arthur fought to keep himself from reacting in an inappropriate way. Well, outwardly. Mentally, he was still a complete pervert. After all, he now knew what those lips felt like pressed against his own. He couldn't help that he wanted it again, with more time to enjoy the sensation....

"I don't mind," Arthur assured Eames. "There was a lot of stress this morning. I think we could both use a nice quiet day of doing nothing but resting."

Eames nodded, his expression pensive, and Arthur wondered what was going on in his mind. 

"Sorry," Eames mumbled, and Arthur couldn't help raising his brows.

"Sorry for what?"

Eames shrugged, his gaze fixed on his right hand rather than meeting Arthur's eyes. "For last night. For being a dick. For cutting myself this morning and wrecking the day. For being in your bed now."

Arthur was silent a moment, trying to figure out the best way to reply. "Look," he said, reaching over and wrapping his fingers around the wrist of Eames' good hand. "Last night was a... miscommunication on both our parts. And I still feel like shit for slapping you. I shouldn't have done that."

Eames glanced up at him, looking pensive, not surprised, but just _looking_.

"It's not as though you cut yourself on purpose," Arthur forged onward. "You're covered by my insurance, so the only thing I'm concerned with now is your recovery."

Eames nodded, those pink lips plumping, and Arthur tried to banish the memory of Eames kissing him, because that way lay disaster. He damned well knew it, it was at the forefront of his mind, and yet it was so hard to make himself focus on that one fact.

"We didn't have any real plans for today," he continued when Eames didn't say anything. "So spending it just hanging out isn't really any hardship. And do you honestly think that I mind having you in my bed? You've spent more time in it since you arrived than in your own. I'm fine with that; I always have been."

There, he had said it. But he _knew_ Eames by now. And he knew that if he didn't spell it out, Eames was liable to get the wrong idea in his head and it would become stuck there. It wasn't as though he was coming on to his nephew, Arthur comforted himself. It was just that he didn't want Eames to feel as though he was in any way unwelcome.

Eames was staring at him with an unreadable expression, and Arthur reflected on the fact that he only knew what Eames was thinking when Eames _let_ him, or if he had his guard down for some reason. He didn't mind, though. Better Eames should keep some secrets. Arthur wouldn't _want_ to know what Eames was thinking all of the time.

"Okay," Eames said slowly, running his tongue over his lower lip, leaving it moist and tempting. And, okay, maybe _right now_ Arthur would have wished that he knew what Eames was thinking... but he wasn't comfortable asking, and so he didn't.

"By the way," he added, before the awkward silence could stretch any further between them, "Ariadne said she's bringing dinner over tonight. She also said to give you her love."

"Really?" Eames eyes widened and his cheeks pinked slightly. 

"You know she cares about you, Eames," Arthur said, trying to sound reassuring and not exasperated. He knew by now that Eames had some serious self esteem issues and often needed to be told such things, because he would never take them for granted. "You know I do too."

Because God forbid Eames not know _that_. It was easier to tell Cobb or Ariadne that he loved Eames, easier not to say it to Eames' face, but he wanted to make sure that the boy knew.

"I... yeah, thanks," Eames gruffed, ducking his head and speaking into his chest. Arthur realized he was still holding onto Eames' wrist, virtually clinging to him, and he forced himself to loosen his grip and withdraw his hand.

Eames' dark eyes darted up to Arthur, meeting and holding his gaze, his cheeks still pink. "I.... You know that I... do too, right? Care, I mean."

"I know," Arthur said softly, giving Eames as wide a smile as he could manage when he _still_ felt a little as though the breath had been knocked out of him that morning and he hadn't fully recovered. 

"I don't--" Eames bit his lip and lowered his gaze again. "I just don't want it to be like with Mum, you know. I mean, you're not gonna... don't, don't die on me, okay?" He raised his head, his eyes flashing with alarm and powerful emotions. "But I don't want to... not say it."

"I'm not going anywhere," Arthur vowed, even though it wasn't a promise he could really legitimately make. After all, it wasn't as though Moira had intended to die in a traffic accident and leave her son behind. But right now, at least, this afternoon, Arthur could promise Eames this. "And I do know."

Eames chewed on his lower lip a little longer, holding eye contact, then nodded. "Okay," he nodded again. "Okay."

"Do you want me to wrap a plastic bag around your hand so you can shower?" Arthur asked, once it became apparent that Eames wasn't going to say anything further. "Or do you want to wait on that?"

"I should now, huh?" Eames said, wrinkling his nose. Then he sighed. "I'm sorry we didn't get to go running this morning."

"For God's sake, stop apologizing," Arthur instructed, but he tried to make it sound amused and affection rather than annoyed or forceful. He reached over and squeezed Eames' shoulder. "We're both okay, and once your finger heals a little we'll get back to things as they were. It's all good."

"All right," Eames said meekly, but he smiled at Arthur, and Arthur actually felt as though things were mostly okay between them. At least for the moment.

Eames did shower and once he was done, even though he had been careful, he needed another pain pill. Taking that made him sleepy, but Arthur figured it was better he nap again now rather than later, when Ariadne was slated to arrive. He wanted to make sure that Eames ate dinner, whatever she was bringing over.

"Lie with me?" Eames asked, looking at Arthur with sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes. He was wearing one of Arthur's shirts even though he could have just as easily put on one of his own, the sleeves too long, the collar gaping a little because even though Arthur was fairly slim, Eames was only a fifteen year old boy and he was even more slim.

Taking into consideration the physical reaction he felt to seeing Eames in his shirt, Arthur almost said no to this request. It wasn't right and it wasn't just the incest. Eames was not only his nephew, but he was a boy in his mid-teens, almost a child yet. 

But Eames was looking at Arthur with such need and vulnerability in his face, not even trying to disguise it, and Arthur still hadn't forgotten all the blood he'd cleaned up in the kitchen....

So in the end, emotion won out over reason, and love beat out propriety, and he joined Eames in bed again, underneath the covers this time.

He needed to bathe and shave himself, especially if Ariadne was bringing Robert with her, but he could wait until after Eames fell asleep. In the meantime, he'd hold him close, offering and taking comfort at the same time.

And if Eames' lips brushed Arthur's neck in a soft, barely-there caress before he drifted off... well, that actually wasn't anything new and Arthur could ignore it. Inasmuch as he could ignore anything that sent sparks of desire and arousal running through his body.

When it came to Eames, Arthur had a lot of practice ignoring things like that.

***

Arthur had to admit that even though he wasn't doped up on Vicodin himself it felt good to lounge about on the bed all day with Eames. It wasn't anything that he'd be willing to do on a regular basis, of course, and he certainly wasn't glad that Eames had hurt himself the way he had done, but that didn't mean that Arthur wasn't going to enjoy having this quiet time together now.

It was actually a wrench, dragging himself away from Eames and out of bed, once he was sure that Eames was sound asleep. But he needed to go and get himself clean and presentable. He wasn't about to face Robert Fischer looking less than his best, even if the guy _had_ done him a couple of favors the night before.

It felt great to sluice away the perspiration of a sleepless night and a panicked morning in a hot shower. Arthur didn't know how anyone might voluntarily go without washing; he himself preferred being clean to anything else. Well, perhaps other than a hot, extended bout of sweaty lovemaking... but while that went without saying, it wasn't something he should be thinking about when he had just been in bed with his _nephew_.

It spoke to the state of Arthur's nerves that he had just spent hours in bed with Eames, that Eames was in Arthur's bed, still wearing Arthur's oversized shirt, and yet Arthur couldn't have felt less like jerking off.

Well, he'd outed himself to Eames the night before, he'd had to drive Eames to the hospital while he bled profusely, and he was still incredibly confused over the fact that Eames had kissed him. So it was hardly surprising that he wasn't feeling turned on in the slightest.

It occurred to him while he was drying off and getting dressed that nothing about Eames should be turning him on at any point, for any reason....

But it was something that had been happening pretty much since the first moment he had met the boy, and it had become such a deeply ingrained part of Arthur's life now that he almost couldn't imagine being without the desire, the twisted attraction to his blood relative.

Oh, who was he kidding? Part of the appeal -- though certainly not the larger part of it by any means -- _was_ the taboo aspect of it, the fact that Eames was his nephew. It didn't make Arthur want Eames any more than he already did, but it did give the whole thing that extra little pinch of exotic flavor, the forbidden aspect of it making the desire that much more intense.

Arthur had always thought that it was taboo enough that he was gay. Not in his own mind, true, but where the majority of the rest of the world was concerned. He'd certainly never been the sort to pine after straight boys, he'd never had any daddy issues or desire for bears, he'd rarely indulged in any sort of bondage, crossdressing, or other fetishes. It wasn't that he wasn't adventurous, but he just didn't need anything like that to get off, especially with the right partner. 

Now he not only wanted to sleep with his _nephew_ \-- in the carnal sense, since he was already doing so in the literal sense -- but the boy was just that, a fifteen year old _boy_. Arthur certainly hadn't been attracted to fifteen year olds since graduating high school, once the age difference grew too great. He could understand the attraction on an intellectual level, he supposed, though he didn't approve. Which made him something of a hypocrite right now, of course, but he was well aware of that fact.

Eames was _Eames_ , though. It wasn't like Arthur found him to be sexy _because_ he was fifteen. More _in spite of_ this. That made it at least somewhat better... right?

Well, sure, if one completely disregarded the incest. Or the fact that it didn't matter whether it was a part of the attraction or not, Eames _was fifteen_....

But then Arthur finished in the master bath and emerged into his room, and there Eames lay, sleeping soundly. He ought to have looked like a child, his face lax, his lips parted as he breathed heavily, not quite snoring. Instead, he looked incredibly sexy. His shirt -- _Arthur's_ shirt -- was tugged to one side, exposing a sharp collarbone and part of his shoulder. His cheekbone stood out in the afternoon light, his lashes long on his cheeks, his hair an untamed mess where he hadn't even attempted to comb it after his shower.

It was true that Eames was fifteen, and Arthur considered most fifteen, sixteen, even seventeen year olds to be virtually children. But Eames was.... He was smart. He was mature for his age. He was so much _more_ than any other fifteen year old. And Arthur wasn't the only one that thought so. Ariadne did too. And Cobb. And anyone else who got to know him was going to be aware of it.

Not that it would ever be all right for Arthur to lust after him. Arthur knew that. He did, really. And that was why he felt so guilty for feeling so little guilt.

Still, he did feel guilty enough that he didn't climb right back into bed with Eames. Besides, he hadn't had any Vicodin himself, so he wasn't feeling drowsy.

Instead, he exited the bedroom and set about tidying the rest of the house for their guests tonight.

If Ariadne really had meant it when she'd said "we" then Arthur definitely wanted the place spotless. He didn't want Robert Fischer seeing his home at anything less than its best.

Maybe Arthur couldn't purge himself of his perverted desires, but he could at least make sure his house was clean.

***

Ariadne did bring Robert along with her, as well as a hamburger and tomato casserole that tasted a lot better than it looked, and some dinner rolls. 

"I know you always have salad stuff," she told Arthur, after giving Eames a ginger hug and a warm kiss on the cheek. "And I figure if we want vegetables, you've probably got those too."

Robert brought wine, and Arthur thanked him for it, even though Eames wasn't going to be able to have any. Not with the pain killers he was on. Probably just as well. Ariadne didn't mind when cuddly-Eames made an appearance, but Robert didn't really need to be seeing that. Especially not when he and Arthur worked for the same company.

Arthur hadn't actually introduced him to Ariadne, despite the fact that he had known Robert first. Ariadne had worked under Maurice Fischer, Robert's father, before the man had passed away, and she'd met Robert at a company picnic or something of that nature. They'd been acquaintances first, then something approaching friends, and now here they were, evidently dating.

It wasn't that Arthur minded. It wasn't that it was any of his business who Ariadne got involved with, as long as they weren't abusive or otherwise dangerous. And it was true, what Ariadne had said about Robert getting better since his father had died; enough to be noticeable while still not endearing him to Arthur. 

But, damn it all, he just wasn't _good_ enough for Ariadne! 

Arthur wondered if this was what being an older brother would feel like. He had to admit that he hadn't really felt that anyone Ariadne had dated had been worth her time, and he couldn't bring to mind anyone he knew who _would_ be. Obviously Ariadne had lower standards for herself than he had for her, which was probably to the good or she'd never be in a relationship and never get laid....

But it gave Arthur the heebie-jeebies to think about Ariadne and sex, especially with Robert. So he wasn't going to follow that train of thought any further.

The evening went pretty well, all things considered. Arthur and Robert were polite to one another and actually found themselves talking about work. Ariadne carried most of the conversation, and Eames was cheerful enough while also being pretty quiet. He had to take a pain pill halfway through dinner, unfortunately, after he bumped his right hand against the edge of the table and went white.

Not surprisingly, he retired shortly after they were done eating, with a mumbled apology and a last one-armed hug for Ariadne.

Arthur was glad that Ariadne didn't insist on tucking Eames in or anything, considering that he was pretty sure his nephew was headed for Arthur's bed rather than his own. While she _might_ not view this askance, after what had happened with Eames cutting his finger so badly that morning, it was still not something Arthur wanted her to have an awareness of.

Ariadne and Robert stayed long enough to nibble at some dessert while their systems worked through the last of the alcohol from the wine they had drunk, but they were saying goodbye and were on their way well before ten o'clock. 

Arthur wasn't sure whether he'd have wanted them to stay longer or not. Robert had complimented Eames' artwork and Arthur's taste in home decor, all without a hint of sarcasm or condescension, which had been a nice change. So maybe Ariadne wasn't wrong about him getting better.

Arthur wasn't ready to trust the man yet, but he was more willing than he had been to give him the chance that Ariadne had requested.

After lounging about in bed so much of the day Arthur wasn't sure he wanted to retire early himself. After checking to see that, yes, Eames was in his bed, he was sleeping soundly, and he was fine, Arthur went out and once his eyes had adjusted to the dark, had a late run around his property. 

Once he'd done that he felt a little more settled and even though sleep was a long way off, he could relax into the sofa and call Cobb.

Cobb answered, which hadn't been a given considering that the man had two young kids. Arthur had known Cobb to crash before nine, on the nights when Phillipa and James allowed him to do so.

"What's wrong, Arthur?" Cobb asked, because he was occasionally astute like that, and this allowed Arthur to unburden himself, with greater emphasis on his own reaction to the damage Eames had done his finger than when he had been talking to Ariadne on the phone. He didn't know the reason for the difference, but that didn't mean it wasn't there.

"Aw, that sucks," Cobb responded, sounding satisfyingly sympathetic. "The worst I've had to deal with was when Phillipa twisted her ankle about six months ago. And there was no blood. It's a good thing you stay calm under pressure."

"I didn't feel calm," Arthur confessed. Even though he might not be as close to Cobb as he used to be, Cobb was still his friend and knew him in ways that Ariadne didn't. And Arthur might not trust Cobb in all ways all the time, but he knew he could trust him with his emotions right now.

"You didn't panic, you got him to the hospital, and you got him taken care of, right?" Cobb got right to the heart of the matter. "Some parents can't manage that much, trust me."

"I think most parents can manage to do what needs to be done," Arthur argued, not sure whether he liked being called Eames' "parent", albeit in a roundabout way. It made him feel a little bit warm and fuzzy, but also even more creepy considering the filthy, carnal things he wanted to do to Eames.

"And _I_ think you're overestimating most people's abilities," Cobb snorted. "Trust me, I was not a pillar of strength when Pippa twisted her ankle. I kind of fell apart, in fact."

"Not at the time it happened, though," Arthur hazarded a guess, and Cobb didn't correct him. "I'm sure you got her taken care of before falling apart. Besides, after everything that's happened, I think it's perfectly understandable if you occasionally overreact to even a minor disaster."

"It didn't feel minor at the time," Cobb said with a deep sigh and more than a hint of darkness in his tone. "My baby was hurting and I couldn't do anything to make it better."

"Yeah," Arthur agreed, because that was the same way he had felt. It was the way he felt every time Eames cried over his mother's death. And he'd be willing to bet it was the way Cobb felt when his children mourned their mother as well.

They fell into a bleak silence, and somehow Arthur felt comforted by it, even though there was nothing comforting about the situation. Maybe it was just because Cobb knew how he felt and had felt the same way. It was awful that such bad things had happened, of course, that Moira and Mal were gone. But it was kind of nice knowing that neither he nor Cobb was alone in their experiences....

"You should go to bed, to your boy," Cobb said, and Arthur could have sworn his brows got tangled in his hairline. What _was_ it with both Ariadne and Cobb knowing him so well? Not to mention encouraging him in his dysfunction, even if they didn't know about that part of it. 

Cobb continued; "Call me if you need anything, okay? Even if it's just to talk some more."

"Yeah, okay," Arthur found himself replying blankly for want of anything better to say, and before he quite realized, Cobb had said goodbye and hung up.

It was a little disconcerting, Arthur thought as he locked up and headed for his room, that both Cobb and Ariadne had tried to chase him into bed with Eames. But then, it was just human nature, right? To cling to something precious that had almost been snatched away by a horrible accident. And it wasn't as though either of them knew that Eames spent _every_ night in Arthur's bed.

They definitely didn't need to know that, Arthur reflected as he slid under the covers and pulled Eames close. Even if nothing was happening in the bed. Sure, Eames had kissed Arthur on the lips... but that had just been the drugs.

Drugs made people do things they wouldn't normally do all the time, right?

At least that was what Arthur was resolutely going to tell himself. Because that was the only explanation that made any sense.

***

Eames was pretty subdued the next day. He refused to take any pain pills stronger than ibuprofen even though his finger was clearly hurting him, and Arthur let him get away with sitting around and reading most of the morning. 

"Sorry I can't do... anything," Eames said, waving his hand and then grimacing, as Arthur set their lunch on the table. "No cooking or cleaning or yard work...."

Arthur chuckled. "Well, you had to start behaving like a normal teenager sometime, right?" he asked, ruffling Eames' hair was a casual hand.

Eames stared at him blankly for a moment and then he laughed. "Yeah, I guess," he mumbled, shrugging his left shoulder and then grabbing his spoon. Arthur had made soup, and maybe it was a mistake, but it was the easiest thing he could think of to eat one-handed since they'd run out of Ariadne's leftover casserole. Certainly it was better than a sandwich.

Eames was eyeing him as they ate, with that pensive expression which meant he was thinking about something very hard but he wasn't going to articulate it unless Arthur came out and asked him. So.

"What is it?" Arthur asked.

Eames pulled a face, but didn't deny he had a question. "You don't like Robert very much, do you," he said, and he phrased it like a question, but it was more of a statement.

"Well." Arthur ate a little soup, giving himself a moment to think. He had no idea why Eames was asking, but he wasn't surprised that his nephew had noticed the tension between them, even though they'd both been pretty well behaved the evening before. "We got off on the wrong foot, I suppose you could say. He had a lot to prove to his father, so he took a job with Maurice's biggest competitor; Mr. Saito. And when he started work, he thought he knew everything about everything. And he wasn't shy about letting everyone know."

"Hm." Eames was gnawing on his lower lip, stirring his soup slowly with his left hand, his right resting beside the bowl on the table, bandages gleaming white. "Bet that didn't go over well with anyone."

Arthur snorted. "How did you guess? And any negative feedback he got just made him worse. Thankfully he wasn't in my division, but I still had to interact with him a fair amount back then. Not so much anymore, since we've both been promoted in different directions. Ariadne says he's gotten better since his father passed away. I suppose she's right. She'd know more than I would, after all; she spends way more time with him."

Eames nodded, his expression thoughtful. He ate some of his soup and then asked, "Did you sleep with him?"

Arthur came dangerously close to inhaling his own soup, which was large amounts of no fun at all. 

"Sorry," Eames said, but he didn't sound sorry at all. He was watching Arthur with an intent gaze, and he evidently expected an answer.

"Uh, no," Arthur choked out. "Absolutely not. Not only is he not my type, but to the best of my knowledge Robert is straight. After all, he's with Ariadne right now."

"Oh." Eames pursed his lips, and was he trying to distract Arthur on purpose? Surely not. "I just kind of thought you disliked him the same way you did Jude."

"No." Arthur shook his head decisively. "I don't feel the same way about the two of them at all. Robert was a braggart who didn't know as much as he thought he did, though he's learned since then. Jude gets by with doing the least amount of work he can get away with, and the only reason he hasn't been fired by now is because he's remarkably adept at charming everyone around him. I don't dislike him because of anything we did or didn't do in the past; it's because he's a shitty employee, and because he's broken more than a few hearts in the company. Robert acted like a douche in the past, but he must not be one any longer if Ariadne likes him. Jude _is_ a douche and that's not going to change."

Eames nodded slowly. "Okay. I get it," he said. And while Arthur was glad that they could discuss Arthur's hypothetical and past sex life without Eames spinning into a homophobic panic, he really didn't want to pursue this. Especially not while they were eating lunch.

"Is it really so obvious I don't care for Robert?" he asked, not to change the subject but because he'd promised Ariadne and he didn't want to be the dick who treated a man poorly due to what he had used to be rather than what he was now.

Eames tilted his head to the side. "No..." he said slowly, then continued more certainly. "No, not really. I mean, not to someone who doesn't know you well."

"Crud." Arthur grimaced. At Eames' inquisitive look, he clarified. "Robert doesn't know me well, but Ariadne does."

"Oh." Eames spooned a little more soup into his mouth. "Well, I don't think Robert can tell. And Ariadne will forgive you. Especially if you change your mind about Robert."

"Do you think I should?" Arthur asked, because he genuinely wanted Eames' opinion. Sure, Eames was only fifteen, but he was smart, he was emotionally mature -- most of the time -- and he knew all the people involved.

"Well, yeah," Eames answered, as though it should be obvious. "I mean, if Ariadne cares about Robert, there's something there, yeah? She's not stupid. Or does she have a habit of picking up losers?"

It took Arthur a moment to recognize that Eames was actually asking, not being facetious. It caught him by surprise a little, realizing that Eames didn't actually know about Ariadne's past, because it seemed as though Eames had been here forever, as though they had all known one another forever. 

"Not really," he replied, after giving it a moment of thought. "She hasn't had a lot of serious relationships, but when she does they're usually pretty decent guys. It's just that none of them...."

"Are good enough for her?" Eames hazarded, filling in the blank perfectly. He shrugged with his left shoulder and gave Arthur a crooked grin. "Well, yeah. Who could be? But we should be happy she's happy, right? Robert doesn't seem too bad, and he does make her happy."

Arthur sighed but nodded. "You're right. I'll see what I can do about treating him better."

"I'm just saying," Eames demurred, grabbing a chunk of the wheat sourdough Arthur had set out to have with the soup and dunking it in his bowl.

"No, you're completely correct," Arthur said. "Whether it lasts or not, Robert is good for Ariadne right now. So if I really want what's best for her, I'll support that. Unless or until he does something to prove us wrong."

Eames looked approving, but finished his lunch in silence. Arthur spent the time reflecting.

"I'm glad you're here to talk sense into me," he said as he cleared away the empty bowls. "Otherwise I'm not sure I'd have reached such a sensible conclusion, and I'd just have made myself and Ariadne miserable."

Eames snorted. "My grandfather would have laughed if he heard anyone call me sensible," he said, not quite scornfully, but with too much self deprecation for Arthur's liking.

"Your grandfather couldn't have laughed through the broken face I'd have given him if he was still alive," Arthur said, maybe a little too fiercely. But he couldn't help how angry he still felt about the man. For his verbal and emotional abuse of Eames, for his distorted view of homosexuality, art, and the world in general, but especially for the way he had viewed Eames and caused Eames to view himself. That was simply unforgivable.

Eames looked a little taken aback by Arthur's stark declaration of violence, but he didn't say anything in return. He couldn't very well defend the bastard, Arthur thought sadly, but he didn't have enough self esteem to agree with Arthur either.

Arthur was going to have to work on that last. It was his responsibility now to make sure that Eames grew into a strong, confident man who believed in himself and could take care of himself. Which was exactly what he should be, because his potential was simply amazing. Hell, he was amazing already, right now.

But something about envisioning Eames as an adult made Arthur's heart ache, and so he banished that thought from his mind. Bad enough he was going to have to send Eames off to high school in, oh God, less than a month! But to think about Eames turning eighteen, going off to college, graduating college and setting off to live his own life.... It ached somewhere deep in Arthur's heart. 

So he just wasn't going to think about it.

"What's wrong?" Eames asked, tipping his head to one side and looking concerned, because of course he would notice Arthur's mood had suddenly, unaccountably lowered.

"Nothing," Arthur said, waving it away. "It's nothing." He certainly wasn't going to tell Eames he'd been thinking about him going off to college. Not only was it ridiculous, but it wasn't anything Eames needed to start stressing over either. 

Eames clearly didn't believe him, but he allowed himself to be distracted with some television, and the rest of the day went pleasantly enough from there.

After all, Eames was only fifteen now. College and adulthood were still a ways off. Arthur resolutely reminded himself of this fact.

***

The next two days passed fairly quietly. Eames didn't bring up the kiss he'd given Arthur the morning he'd cut his finger, and Arthur certainly wasn't going to do so. Eames seemed to be okay with Arthur outing himself, and he still shared Arthur's bed every night, curling close even though the weather had taken a distinct turn for the warm.

Arthur had no idea what Eames did while he was gone at work, but things weren't that different when he got home. Eames needed Arthur's help making dinner, and Arthur wielded a knife if one was required in said preparations, but Eames didn't let his damaged finger stop him from either cooking or cleaning.

"You could let the place go to hell a little," Arthur offered, when he came home the second day to find Eames pushing the vacuum laboriously with only his left hand, keeping his right arm carefully out of the way, tucked up against his chest. "I wouldn't mind."

Eames shook his head stubbornly. "It's not that big a deal," he said, despite the fact that he looked tired and was usually done with the chores well before Arthur got home. "Neither of us is very messy; I just saw that the floor needed doing, so I'm hoovering."

Arthur didn't argue, but he was glad when Eames finished up and joined him in the kitchen. He was really concerned that Eames would overtax himself or hurt his finger worse. And this wasn't an entirely groundless fear. Not only was Eames inherently stubborn, but he was also a teenager and thus felt as though he was immortal. Granted, he was all too aware of the reality of mortality after losing his mother as he had, but that didn't change his general nature. And Arthur could remember how far off and impossible the idea of dying had been when he had been fifteen himself. 

Of course, dying and permanently fucking up his pinkie were two completely different things. But Arthur was pretty sure that one was much the same as the other in Eames' mind, in that his own mortality must seem so distant and incomprehensible.

They made and ate dinner the same as the night before, and watched some television before bedtime. Normally they'd get in some sparring in the dojo on Tuesday evenings, but until Eames' finger healed there was no way Arthur was going to allow them to do anything of the sort.

Overall, it was a nice companionable evening, and they retired early. Especially early considering that the summer sun was still in the sky. But Arthur had thick curtains in his bedroom, and Eames had stated a marked preference for going to bed before it even hit ten o'clock. Arthur wasn't inclined to deny him anything, even though he'd mostly gotten over the shock of nearly losing him by this point....

Which, okay, "nearly losing him" might be a slight exaggeration. But there had definitely been more blood than would have resulted from, say, a paper cut. And what if Eames had nicked an artery?

Arthur wasn't thinking about that, wasn't dwelling on that possibility any longer. But that didn't mean he wasn't slightly more inclined to indulge Eames when he asked for something. So when Eames wanted to go to bed early, they went to bed.

Since the weather had gotten warmer and Arthur generally didn't run the air conditioning unless it was truly dire, they were both wearing boxers rather than pajama bottoms. Arthur had on a tank but Eames opted to go bare from the waist up. 

Arthur took a moment to recognize the fact that all the effort Eames had been putting into weight training, working out, and sparring had definitely made a difference. He wasn't bulked up by any stretch of the imagination, nor should he be when he was only fifteen, but there was firmness, there was muscle definition, and he wasn't scrawny in the slightest. Which he had been, a bit, when he'd first arrived in the States.

It gave Arthur a glow of pride, knowing that he'd given Eames the means and the direction to effect these changes. But even more, he was proud _of Eames_ for putting the effort into it. None of this had just _happened_ , not even with the amount of yard work that Eames did, and as Arthur well knew from personal experience, it took discipline. Discipline and effort, and Eames had both.

Arthur wanted to tell Eames that he looked good, that he appreciated how fit he was, but he couldn't think of any way to say it that wouldn't come off sounding creepy. And since he was definitely eyeing Eames with more than a bit of carnal longing and lust... well, it really _would_ have been creepy, as well as completely inappropriate.

So, even though he generally tried to reward any of Eames' accomplishments verbally, Arthur held his tongue and just flipped back the covers, getting them both settled under the top sheet. At least until the night cooled enough that they might need the comforter.

Eames seemed to prefer to use Arthur as his own personal heating pad, and when he draped himself over Arthur's torso and legs Eames could get pretty warm himself. Arthur both gloried in and despaired of these moments of enforced intimacy that didn't go anywhere. Well, they provided Eames with comfort and a sense of belonging, Arthur was sure, which was why he never pushed him away. But they certainly had no sexual conclusion. 

Which was how it should be, Arthur reminded himself firmly, even as Eames rolled into his arms, pressed against his chest. Because Eames was his nephew and he was fifteen. Any sort of sexual interaction between them would go beyond inappropriate and would actually be molestation and abuse on Arthur's part. That was why he never gave in to his desires, no matter how powerfully he felt them.

"Hey, Arthur," Eames murmured, raising his chin, where his head was resting on Arthur's shoulder.

"Yeah?" Arthur queried, even though, completely inexplicably, something in Eames' tone had set him on alert. Eames had only said his name, so what could he possibly have to fear? And from his own nephew, no less.

Arthur really ought to know better than to ask questions like that, even in the privacy of his own mind. Because the universe delighted in responding to them.

"Can I ask you a favor?" Eames husked, tipping his head up a little further so that his lips brushed Arthur's jaw. Arthur was used to this sort of caress by now -- not to say that it left him completely unaffected -- so he was also used to ignoring it.

"You can ask," he replied, equally quietly. Not because he mistrusted Eames, though he was suspicious of his tone, but more because it was his own personal policy to never make an uninformed promise. 

Eames paused a moment and swallowed audibly, which had the result of making Arthur nervous by proxy, because they were easy enough with one another by now -- after all, they spent every night twined together in bed -- that if Eames was anxious, it had to be something... different.

"You know," Eames began conversationally, though he still kept his voice low and he shifted restlessly next to Arthur, his thigh rubbing against Arthur's in a provocative skin-on-skin manner that he _must_ be unaware of, "My right hand is out of commission, for the time being."

"I know," Arthur replied, because he did. Eames' finger was healing quickly, but it had only been a few days and it had been a deep cut.

"That's my wanking hand," Eames said evenly, and Arthur's brain kind of stuttered to a halt, caught up in the images that simple sentence had blasted into his head. Eames was continuing to speak, however. "Makes it a little hard to toss off, and without that, a guy can start to get cranky."

"You haven't been cranky," Arthur said mindlessly, inanely, not really able to admit to himself that they were talking about this, about Eames _masturbating_.

"Not yet," Eames verified, and he was definitely pressing in too closely, but Arthur was powerless to shove him away. He'd already set a precedent and he was only now realizing how dangerous that was. And besides, he couldn't quite believe that Eames was really talking to him about jerking off. It just seemed too impossible, too improbable.

"You can use your off hand," Arthur said, even though he felt as though he'd been punched in the chest, even though he couldn't credit the fact that they were discussing this the same way they discussed things like the sharing out of yard work or groceries.

Well, maybe not exactly the same. Arthur didn't think either of them sounded so turned on by daily chores. And it definitely wasn't his imagination that Eames sounded almost as turned on as he was feeling.

"You know that doesn't really work," Eames rumbled, and somehow he was curling in even closer to Arthur. And Arthur could feel that Eames was getting hard against his hip, maybe had already been but he was only noticing it now. Eames' thigh was only an inch or two from his own groin, and if he shifted much more, he was going to notice that Arthur was getting hard too.

To prevent that disaster, Arthur rolled toward Eames, pressing him back and away a little bit, though he didn't remove his arms from around his nephew.

 _Nephew. Nephew._ Eames was his _nephew_.

Arthur tried to remind himself of this fact, even as Eames lifted his chin and feathered a very definite, very deliberate kiss against the soft underside of his jaw. 

"Come on, help a guy out," Eames demanded, too breathy to be a whine, slinging his leg more firmly over Arthur's hip and hitching closer. The fingers of his good hand curled into the material of Arthur's tank between them, tugging, Eames' other arm tightening around Arthur's back even though he was careful to hold his damaged finger clear. "Please?"

Arthur knew the answer to this one. A definitive and resounding "no" and he really ought to send Eames to sleep in his own bed. This had gone too far, and they were teetering on the edge of something they couldn't recover from.

Oh, who was Arthur kidding? They were already well past that point. And Eames was squirming in his arms, hard and wanting, and Arthur was a good man, he was, he really tried to be, but he was only human as well. 

Arthur was also suddenly desperately afraid that Eames was going to kiss him on the lips again, and with the way he was feeling, he couldn't guarantee he wouldn't stick his tongue in his nephew's mouth. The fact that Eames might well respond eagerly to this didn't make it any better, any less wrong to even be contemplating it.

So Arthur chose the lesser of two evils, because he absolutely could not stop this train wreck now that it had gotten started.

"Roll over," he urged, terrified that Eames really _would_ kiss him before he could get the boy moved. But Eames did as instructed, rolling and then wriggling back into Arthur, grinding his firm young ass against the curve of Arthur's thighs and hips, and it was really difficult to pretend that he wasn't hard, to ignore the fact that Eames _had_ to be able to feel Arthur's erection through the material of both their boxers.

"Here." 

Arthur shouldn't have been surprised that Eames had prepared for this, that he was shoving a bottle of lotion over his shoulder, and when he gave it an instant of thought, he really wasn't. He supposed he should be disapproving, but then, he _shouldn't be in bed with his teenage nephew preparing to jerk him off_.

But Eames had a good point. A man shouldn't be expected to masturbate with his off hand, and Eames' good hand was out of circulation, at least until it had healed more. Arthur remembered being fifteen. He couldn't expect Eames to go without sexual satisfaction as long as that took.

There was a part of Arthur, a sick and twisted part but one he was not unacquainted with after all this time spent lusting after his own flesh and blood, his _nephew_ , that deeply regretted the fact that he wasn't going to be able to get a look at Eames' dick as he jerked him off. Because this was evidently going to happen, and since it was, it was a shame that they were in the dark, Arthur spooning Eames and reaching around to get him off.

He would be getting his hands on the boy's uncut dick, though, Arthur consoled himself, as he reached into Eames' loose boxers and clasped his fingers around the thick, throbbing length in question.

He'd just crossed the line and there was no coming back from this, ever, he thought vaguely as Eames sucked in a great breath and arched into this contact. And right now, in this mad moment, Arthur didn't really fucking care. He'd been tormented by his feelings and desire for Eames almost since he had first met him. Somehow, here in the dark and heat of their closeness under the sheets, this seemed to him to be the only possible advancement in their relationship.

Even though he couldn't see it, Arthur could feel Eames' dick, hard and ready in his grip. He was quite well endowed for his age, but Arthur squashed that thought down firmly because even more than the incestuous aspect of this, it made him feel like a pervert.

"Yeah," Eames choked out, and he shifted slightly away from Arthur's touch, but it was only in order to grind his ass back into Arthur's hard-on, Arthur realized, firming his grip and giving Eames a couple of easy tugs, careful because his hand was still dry.

Running the pad of his thumb over the tip, where the foreskin had pulled away, Arthur noted that Eames was already wet, leaking pre-ejaculate. This didn't really surprise him, considering it had been days and Eames was a healthy teenage male. He probably _had_ been getting himself off, Arthur thought pragmatically. But with his regular wanking hand out of commission it probably hadn't been anywhere near as satisfying as usual. Besides which, as Arthur well knew, someone else's hand always felt better than one's own, especially if said person knew what they were doing.

And Arthur definitely knew what he was doing. Slicking his hand with the lotion only required a moment, he took a moment longer to make sure it was warmed and not cold, then he settled his own right hand more tightly around Eames' eager erection.

Arthur had plenty of practice at this, both with his own dick and with other guys', even though it had been a while for that latter, and he had a good angle of approach to work his hardest to get Eames off. Normally he'd have spun this out, savored it, made sure to build the pleasure and the pressure higher and higher for both of them. But Eames was pent up, already sobbing for breath and rocking in his arms, and Arthur was just as turned on, what with the way Eames' gorgeous rear was grinding into his own stiff dick with nothing of finesse and all raw passion while Arthur worked him harder and faster toward his climax.

Tightening his fingers, sliding his palm up and down the rigid shaft of Eames' hard-on, his other arm clasped around Eames' waist, Arthur couldn't help but press panting, open-mouthed kisses into the hot, delicate skin of Eames' temple, cheekbone, cheek. He tasted salt and didn't know whether it was perspiration or tears as Eames choked, writhed in his arms, clutched at his wrist with his good hand, and then came over his fingers and knuckles, blood-hot, thick, and wet.

When he felt that, Arthur's own climax hit him like a load of bricks to the face, only far more pleasurable, as he shot off in his boxers like he hadn't done in he didn't know how long. But with Eames' delicious ass pressing against the sensitive head of his demanding dick, could he really be blamed?

Arthur knew that he _was_ to blame for what had just happened... on an intellectual level. But he was coasting in the soft pulsing of his afterglow, and it felt good to pull Eames close, to kiss his face, tasting salt and breathing, "Good boy," and "You did so good," even though it was silly and should have sounded stupid, as Eames shuddered and clung to him and maybe cried a little, Arthur wasn't sure.

Instead of freaking out about what had just happened, Arthur roused enough to get them both cleaned off with their own boxers and his tank, dropping the soiled clothing shamelessly over the edge of the bed and tugging Eames up against his chest, both of them completely naked and still radiating heat and contentment. It should have been uncomfortable and sweaty, he thought vaguely, rubbing soothing spirals in the smooth skin of Eames' back, but somehow it wasn't.

And this time it was Arthur who kissed Eames on the mouth, even though he kept it light and fleeting. But, honestly. If a man got another man off, the least they could do was kiss afterward, right? Even if one of the "men" was a teenage boy and the legal responsibility of the older man....

Not even sure if he was sane any longer, but not really caring, Arthur gave Eames a squeeze and then held him close as sleep swelled up to overwhelm his conscious mind. 

They were here, together, now, in this bed. And here and now, that was all that mattered. As fleeting as that feeling might prove to be.

Right now... well, it was enough.


	9. Chapter 9

It wasn't until he woke the following morning that the guilt really kicked in. 

Arthur came to awareness slowly, feeling warm and comfortable with Eames in his arms and the faint smell of sex in the air... and that part of it actually wasn't unusual, was how most mornings went. 

It wasn't until his higher brain functions kicked in and he realized that Eames was _naked in his arms_ that the guilt and panic rose up in tandem to overwhelm him.

Arthur didn't dump Eames out of bed but it was a near thing, and Eames woke with a startled yelp -- sounding more than a little pained, meaning Arthur must have jostled his bad finger -- as Arthur launched _himself_ off the mattress.

Without pausing even long enough to apologize, Arthur grabbed a pair of pants and darted into the bathroom. He couldn't face Eames and the coming conversation that they were going to _have_ to have with dried jizz flaking off his bare belly and thighs.

He did feel bad about bumping Eames' hand, however he'd done it, but that infraction paled to near insignificance in light of the fact that he had abandoned all shame and any pretentions of decency the night before and _jerked his underage nephew off_.

It didn't matter that Eames had asked him to do it. Arthur was the adult here. He should have been the one to say "no". On no uncertain terms, he should have said "no," and "no!" and "absolutely not, never mention it again!" It didn't matter that Eames' request and Arthur's capitulation had seemed to make sense at the time. Here and now in the harsh light of day -- literally -- Arthur couldn't believe he'd given in to temptation and actually _done_ it.

It took him a couple of seconds to place the sound of Eames banging on the bathroom door, because Eames never bothered him when he was in the shower.... Or, rather, he never had _before_.

"Arthur!" Eames yelled, and he didn't sound angry or traumatized or anything, but he didn't sound happy either. "Arthur, don't think that you can hide in there!"

It occurred to Arthur, somewhat belatedly, that he maybe should have had Eames call him "Uncle Arthur" from the very beginning; then possibly things wouldn't have reached the point they had. The level of familiarity between them had clearly only bred disaster.... But on the other hand, he couldn't imagine Eames calling him "Uncle" and there probably wasn't anything that could have stopped either of them the night before, even if he still wasn't sure why Eames had thought that it would be a good idea on any planet to ask Arthur to help him jerk off.

"I'm not hiding," he called back, though not as loudly when he heard the door open and surmised that Eames was entering the bathroom, against all dictations of etiquette and privacy. Just because he'd been holding Eames' dick in his hand last night and had rubbed off on his ass didn't mean that.... 

Oh, _God_! Arthur jerked Eames off and rubbed off on his ass the night before!

"See, that's where you're wrong," Eames said, sounding remarkably calm when Arthur felt like he was about to have a fucking panic attack here in his own shower, the steam-filled air suddenly too thick in his lungs to draw a complete breath. "You _are_ hiding, and you're freaking out, and you shouldn't. I _asked_ you to do that, okay? It was all on me, not you."

Arthur didn't reply to this because he couldn't get the words together in the right order inside his head, much less get them to come out his mouth, and he was desperately certain that the only thing keeping Eames from joining him in the shower was the fact of his bandaged hand. 

He could hear Eames sigh. Then Eames used the toilet, and that really shouldn't have had Arthur getting half hard again, should it have. He groped blindly for the shampoo, because there was nothing arousing about washing his hair, making sure to keep his gaze averted from where he could see Eames' blocky outline through the frosted glass of the shower stall door.

"I'm going to go and clean off a little, then make you some coffee," Eames told him over the flushing of the toilet, and he still sounded reasonable and collected; two things Arthur was so far from feeling that it almost hurt. 

"Make sure you get dressed too," Arthur snapped, even though he knew that was verging on overreacting. Not that he thought Eames would wander naked into the kitchen to brew Arthur's morning coffee and his own tea.... But after last night he didn't feel as though he could be certain of anything any longer in his life or in their shared lives.

Eames made a scoffing sound, but thankfully retreated, leaving Arthur to finish his bath in peace. Arthur took a little longer than he normally would have, trying to will away the last of the entirely inappropriate erection he was sporting due to both he and Eames being naked in the same room together. Even though there had been the opaque door between them, his dick still felt pretty intrigued.

Arthur got dressed as though he was heading to work, even though he was experiencing the powerful urge to call in. He rarely did so, meaning he had plenty of sick time he could use, and if what he had done to Eames last night didn't make him _feel_ sick, then there was something seriously wrong with him. Well, even more so than his already acknowledged low-riding, secret lust after his fifteen year old nephew.

Not so secret anymore, of course. And they were going to have to talk about that, among other things. Arthur... kind of wanted to never have to leave the bathroom, ever again. He knew that he had to, however, had to be the responsible adult here.

But he was definitely thinking about calling in.

Smoothing a shaking hand down the front of his shirt, over the neat row of buttons, Arthur took a deep breath and left the safety of his bedroom, heading for the kitchen.

***

Eames looked defensive the moment Arthur walked into the kitchen; not a good start to a conversation Arthur was already _far_ from looking forward to having,

He was at least clothed, though he was wearing one of Arthur's shirts again. Arthur really wanted to tell him to take it off but with the mood that Eames was clearly in he'd probably just accept this as a challenge and strip out of it then and there. And Arthur couldn't have handled that. 

Arthur had on shoes and socks, and had taken the time to shellac his hair. Eames, on the other hand, was barefoot and Arthur could only _hope_ that he had on a pair of boxers under his appropriated teeshirt.

"Before you say anything," Eames blurted, even though Arthur still couldn't get words to coalesce in his head, much less trip over his tongue and had yet to open his mouth, "I don't have any regrets."

Instead of replying right away, Arthur took a moment to consider what he ought to say as he walked into the kitchen and took the steaming mug of coffee from Eames' good hand. It was just the way he liked it, and this, combined with the memory of Eames bleeding all over the kitchen a few days before, actually somehow helped him calm down a little.

Only a little, though.

"Whether you regret it or not is irrelevant," Arthur said, trying not to sound sour or unapproachable. It was really difficult, though, and he wasn't sure whether he'd succeeded. His palms were sweating and he didn't think he'd been this nervous since his very first date, back in junior high. Probably not even then. But he hadn't ever before been in a situation this outlandish, this rife with potential disaster. Hell, it already _was_ a complete disaster.

So he was really just doing damage control here. And, hey, damage control he could handle.

If he kept telling himself this he might even start to believe it, as unlikely as that seemed to be.

Eames looked as though he was gearing himself up for battle, and Arthur felt the overwhelming need to cut his nephew off before he said anything further. He couldn't exactly ignore the fact that he'd jerked Eames off the night before, couldn't make it go away, but he could do his best to make sure that Eames didn't ask for a _repeat performance_.

"It shouldn't have happened, and it's not going to happen again," he said as firmly as he was able, using the tone of voice he used at work for his particularly slothful co-workers. It was ninety-nine percent successful there, but all Eames did was jut his jaw and his lower lip stubbornly, his eyes flashing.

"You don't get to make that decision alone," Eames said, and he was clearly making an effort at sounding reasonable but it might have worked better if they weren't talking about something so fucked up and wrong. 

"Yes, I can," Arthur replied as calmly as he was able, crossing to the table and sitting. This put him on a level lower than Eames, but he'd already abused his power the night before, done something the guardian of a teenager should never do, so leveling the field a little like this was only fair. "I have control over what I do, what I use my body for, and until you turn eighteen I have the responsibility to make sure you do the right thing with your own body."

He tried very hard to phrase it in a way that left Eames with complete command of his own functions, that didn't imply that Arthur was going to try to control him, but he had to make it clear at the same time that he wasn't going to let Eames make any stupid mistakes.

Because dating the wrong girl or guy and getting his heart broken, or maybe having a drunken one-night-stand -- even though it made Arthur cringe to contemplate Eames doing either of these things -- were normal mistakes to make. Asking his uncle, his blood-relative, his legal guardian to jerk him off... that wasn't a mistake Arthur was willing to let Eames make again. He was at fault for giving in, it was true, but Eames _had_ gotten the whole thing started. Arthur was perfectly willing to take on almost all of the blame, but he had to admit, even as riddled with guilt as he was, that Eames was not, in fact, completely innocent in this.

Because that had in no way been an innocent request, and there was no way that Eames could have thought that it was one.

Eames was scowling, but he didn't look as unapproachable as he had when Arthur had first entered the kitchen. Arthur knew Eames pretty well by now, and he could just _see_ Eames' brain working away behind his pretty face, contemplating the best angle of attack. Arthur didn't know why this was even an issue; surely Eames knew as well as Arthur did that the night before had been a deviation, something that couldn't happen again, something that _shouldn't_ have happened in the first place....

"I think I know what I want better than you do," Eames said, coming over and sitting beside Arthur. He had a mug of tea, which Arthur hadn't seen him preparing but then he kind of had tunnel-vision right now, focused in on their conversation. 

The fact that Eames had spoken evenly, in what sounded like a reasonable tone of voice, did nothing to mitigate the fact that he was advocating further actions of an incestuous and illegal nature. Because Eames was not only Arthur's nephew, he was also underage.

But maybe Arthur was misreading things. Eames had only said that he didn't regret what had happened. He hadn't explicitly stated that he wanted to do it again.... And even though Arthur had inferred that from his words and tone, maybe that wasn't what Eames had meant at all.

A man could hope, all right?

"Whether you regret it or not," he said, as calmly as he was able when they were talking about _underage, incestuous sex_ , "It's still not going to happen again."

He really was hoping that Eames would just agree with him and let it go, and that this could be the end of it. Things might be awkward between them for a little while but they were still family and they still loved each other, and oh _shit_ the one encounter with Eames under the sheets had done _nothing_ to quench Arthur's desire for his nephew, had only enflamed it! But Eames didn't need to know that, Eames needed to _never know that_ because it was never going to happen again--

"Bullshit," Eames said, interrupting Arthur's panicked train of thought, and while Arthur was a little relieved, he didn't like the belligerent tone of voice or the way Eames' chin was jutting again.

"No," he said flatly, because lines needed to be drawn and if Eames wasn't going to acknowledge that fact, then Arthur was going to draw them.

"Bullshit," Eames repeated, his eyes flashing again. "My hand is still busted and I'm still gonna be horny, and you wanted it as much as I did!"

And there it was, out there, explicitly stated in blunt words. Arthur had known that Eames couldn't have been oblivious to the hard-on digging into his ass or the way Arthur had rubbed off against said ass while he'd gotten Eames off.... But a sad, desperate part of him had been sort of hoping that Eames wouldn't mention it aloud.

Since he wasn't about to get into that train of thought right now, not when Eames was looking so stubborn and yet so vulnerable at the same time, not when Arthur was still only halfway through his first cup of coffee, he decided to take another tack. Maybe an asshole one, but he needed to get this swept under the rug and they both needed get on with their lives together.

"You're just looking for a father figure," he told Eames, speaking as firmly as he was able.

"I am not!" Eames responded stridently, his eyes rounding and his expression somehow seeming betrayed. It was the first slip he had made, the first time he'd looked or sounded anything less than collected and reasonable, but Arthur couldn't count it as a triumph when Eames looked... almost _hurt_.

Before Arthur could reply, Eames sucked in a deep breath and visibly reined himself in. "I don't need to look for a father figure," he continued more calmly. "I already have you."

Arthur grimaced. Not because Eames was wrong, but because, _hello_ , he'd just jerked Eames off the night before. "And where does sex come into that?" he asked, a little more harshly than he meant to.

Instead of being cowed or crushed, Eames' face lit up, the corners of his mouth lifting, and he looked positively _delighted_.

"Hopefully everywhere," he replied brightly.

Arthur couldn't help the way his own face shut down in a harsh frown. He just.... As much as he couldn't believe what they're done the night before, he also couldn't believe they were having this conversation right now.

"Eames, be serious," he commanded, taking a bracing mouthful of cooling coffee. Eames arched a brow and Arthur continued. "Look, you're a teenage male. It's only natural that the strongest emotional connections you make will take on a sexual connotation for you--"

Eames mouth dropped open -- those sexy, sinful lips parted and moist and red -- and he bleated indignantly. "I never wanted to have sex with my mother!"

Arthur sputtered, choking on his next sip of coffee. "I didn't say you did!" he protested more vigorously than intended, feeling his cheeks heating up.

Great, now _Arthur_ was squawking. Wasn't he supposed to be the mature one? 

Then again, he was the one who _shouldn't have jerked his underage nephew off the night before_.

Eames sighed, sounding so longsuffering it was as though _he_ was the one being put upon here.

"You're trying to make this out to be something it isn't," he said, meeting Arthur's gaze steadily, looking frustrated and a little angry and still a little hurt. "You're making it more complicated and less important, at the same time. I don't like that." He frowned. "You're making me feel like I did something wrong."

"No, _I_ did something wrong," Arthur blurted, slamming his mug down on the table with a sharp crack that normally would have had him wincing, that did make Eames start a little. Now they were getting to the crux of the matter, even though Arthur had really been kind of hoping to avoid it.

Eames scowled. "I asked you to--"

"I know that," Arthur interrupted, and if they were going to talk about it, they might as well get it all out there. "I know that, Eames. Look, I'm not saying that what you did wasn't wrong, but I was _more_ wrong. I'm your guardian, I'm in a position of power over you, and I abused that power. It shouldn't have happened, and it is _not_ going to happen again."

Eames looked startled for all of four seconds, then he got a mulish expression on his face that sent a shaft of fear through Arthur's chest.

"No," he said simply. He rose and slung himself over Arthur's lap, arms ringing his neck, then pressed forward to kiss Arthur's forehead before Arthur could react and push him away. "You don't get to beat yourself up and act like you're a predator who abused me," Eames continued, and Arthur didn't think he had ever heard Eames sound more certain, more forceful. "I asked you, I practically _begged_ because it was something I wanted. It wasn't something you did _to_ me; it was something you did _for_ me. So if you're going to put the blame on anyone, put it on me."

Arthur didn't reply right away, because a quick knee-jerk response wasn't going to help either of them here. He needed to collect his thoughts, formulate his reply, make sure that they both knew exactly where they stood....

And while he sat there thinking, making a physical effort to keep his hands off of Eames' lean young hips despite the powerful temptation, trying to ignore the fact that Eames' bare thighs were tight around his trouser-clad flanks, Eames leaned forward again with the clear intent of kissing Arthur a second time. Only this time on the mouth.

Arthur turned his head the moment he realized what Eames meant to do, and those lush lips landed on the corner of his mouth, still so sensual and arousing that he was in serious danger of getting hard underneath Eames' ass... _again_.

It wasn't the middle of the night now, though. And Arthur was more in control of himself than that... if only by a little. Not that Eames needed to know that last.

So, even though a large portion of him ached to turn his head back, to capture Eames' lips and claim them as his own, to plunder the boy's mouth while his hands slid up underneath the oversized shirt Eames had borrowed from him, Arthur did not do that. He was an adult, he was the only adult here, and he was in command of his actions.

He _did_ wrap his hands around Eames' waist, but only for as long as it took him to lift the teen up off of his lap and steady him until he got his feet under him.

"No," he directed, ignoring the way Eames' face fell for a moment before he managed to slap on a blank, expressionless mask, because he couldn't show any weakness, couldn't give any quarter. Eames had clearly demonstrated that to him.

Which meant that bed-sharing was a thing of the past. As was Friday night wine-fueled cuddling on the sofa. And that was painful. But if Arthur couldn't trust Eames or his own treacherous desires, then he was going to have to cut them both off cold.

"We are not doing anything like that again," he told Eames firmly and this time he meant it. Because it was wrong and unhealthy and co-dependent on Eames' part. And Arthur probably should have listened to Ariadne more when she'd brought up how fixated Eames was. But it was too late now for hindsight, so all Arthur could do was move forward and not make the same mistakes a second time.

The first time had been bad enough. 

Gloriously sexy and endlessly arousing, it was true. As little as they had done, Arthur still had to count it as some as the best sex he'd ever had simply due to the emotional connection that he and Eames shared.

But they were _family_ , and sex between blood relatives was wrong, even if there was no risk of pregnancy. Despite Eames' protestations that he'd wanted it -- and he _had_ been the one to ask for it in the first place, it was true -- Arthur was in a position of power over his nephew and he wasn't going to abuse that. 

He wasn't going to abuse Eames.

"This isn't over," Eames said darkly as he moved away from Arthur, running his good hand through his messy hair. It should have sounded silly and overblown, very super villain-esque, but instead it was chilling because Arthur could clearly hear the intent behind the words. Eames might be giving him something of a reprieve now, possibly in order to regroup and prepare a more compelling argument, but this matter wasn't closed.

Well, Arthur had his own resolve. And his resolve was to never sexually molest his underage nephew again.

"You should shower," he said mildly. Maybe he would go to work after all; he was already dressed and he didn't think he had it in him to spend the entire day alone with Eames, trying to ignore the huge incestuous elephant in the room, the barrier of silence and memories of inappropriate actions clogging up the air between them. "I'll make us breakfast."

Eames pulled a face that shouldn't have looked as adorable as it did, but he left without protesting, presumably to do as Arthur had directed.

Arthur didn't make the mistake of thinking this quiet obedience was going to be a common occurrence, but for right now it was the most that he could have hoped for from this entire conversation.

Not that they had really resolved anything, or even touched on the most important points of _why_ any of it had happened. But it was enough for Arthur that he had put his foot down and Eames had, if not agreed, then at least not directly challenged him; not outside of some protests and abortive kiss, anyway.

Arthur had told Eames no and Eames hadn't forced the issue. That was going to have to be good enough. For now. 

***

Of course, nothing was as easy or as effortless as Arthur would have liked. He'd done something to damage the relationship between himself and Eames and it couldn't be undone. He couldn't take it back, and the two of them couldn't even agree on what it had _been_.

Arthur knew that he was wrong to have given in to Eames' request, he knew that he never should have laid his hands on his nephew in a sexual manner, and it pained him that there was no way he knew that he could make it right.

Eames, on the other hand, seemed to be perfectly okay with what they had done and was only hurt that Arthur was pushing him away, that Arthur wanted them to behave the way an uncle and his nephew ought to. Most especially when Arthur was Eames' legal guardian.

It made for a wretched situation, for both of them, in different ways. Arthur knew, he _knew_ that Eames felt rejected, and he'd have given almost anything to keep him from feeling that way, but he wouldn't give Eames this. He _couldn't_ give Eames this. It just... it was _wrong_.

Eames didn't exactly pout, but he was definitely quieter and more withdrawn than he had been since his first few weeks living with Arthur. Not that Arthur didn't understand that, but Eames wanted something he couldn't have, and if he wasn't going to recognize that fact, then it was up to Arthur to enforce it.

It occurred to Arthur to wonder exactly _why_ Eames wanted him, how he had come to look at his uncle sexually. He didn't think he had done anything to encourage that, bed-sharing and sofa-cuddles aside. But he'd been lusting after Eames almost since they had first met and that may have been communicated even if only on a completely subconscious level. Which made this Arthur's fault all over again. And that thought, in turn, made his stomach curdle.

He now had his question as to Eames sexual preferences answered, but not in any way he could have wanted. 

Only... he _had_ wanted it, hadn't he. And that was even worse.

They still ran together in the morning, and worked out together in the dojo, but Arthur called a stop to the sparring and hand-to-hand for now. Until he was sure that he could touch Eames without it being inappropriate. In fact, he hadn't realized how often they had touched one another -- a quick hug, a pat on the chest, a lingering brush of fingertips against hard shoulderblades, and maybe he could see why Eames had gotten the wrong idea, which was the right idea, that was the completely _wrong_ idea -- until it was something they weren't doing. And he missed it.

But he couldn't do it. Couldn't allow himself to wrap Eames up in his arms when he knew what doing so had led to the last time he'd done it. Couldn't stand there at the kitchen counter while Eames embraced him from behind when he had to worry about one or both of them popping a hard-on. 

It was almost painful. He felt like he was missing something essential, like water or air. Like a limb. And yet he couldn't see any way around it. This was what he needed to do, this was the way they needed to be right now.

He could see the hurt in Eames' grey eyes every time he moved away from an abortive gesture, every time he had to quell one of his own toward Eames. He knew that he was doing further harm to the delicate bonds between them, to Eames' fragile sense of self esteem. But there was nothing else for it, no other way Arthur could see to handle this. 

They made it through the better part of the week, somehow. Miserably. They didn't speak much. Arthur brought work home with him the way he used to do before Eames had moved in with him. Eames spent more time shut away in his room. Like a normal teenager, Arthur thought, but the reason for it was so far from "normal" that he wanted to laugh hysterically. 

He knew it was bad when Robert Fischer glanced over at him while they were washing their hands in the restroom at work and asked with every evidence of actual concern, "Are you all right?"

Arthur blinked for a moment, then nodded jerkily. "Yeah, fine," he gruffed, wondering why Robert cared.

"Eames is okay?" Robert pursued, a little hesitantly but persistently. 

Arthur nodded, then made good his escape. But he fully expected to get a phone call from Ariadne later in the day.

And when he did, he decided, he would invite her over to his place for a barbeque on Sunday. He'd have to call Cobb, too, since he'd already extended the invitation and gotten a reply in the affirmative. And while he was at it, he'd see whether Yusuf was back from vacation.

If he couldn't be the company that Eames needed then he would fill their house with people who care about Eames and who would treat him the way he ought to be treated, the way they were supposed to.

It wasn't the best idea he'd ever had, but obviously it wasn't the worst. 

No, he'd already done the worst thing he could do, and he had to struggle now to fix it. Even though he wasn't sure it was something that could be fixed. 

***

The sun was bright but the air was still relatively cool on Sunday in the early afternoon when everyone arrived. It was perfect weather for barbequing, and if it hadn't been for what was wrong between himself and Eames, Arthur really would have been looking forward to it.

Ariadne brought two kinds of Jello, coleslaw, and Robert. Cobb brought potato salad, a six-pack, and his kids. Yusuf sent his regrets via email, but he wasn't going to be back in town for a couple more days, squeezing every last bit out of his summer vacation that he could.

Robert himself brought wine, the same as he had done when he'd come over for dinner... God, had it only been the weekend previous? Arthur would have accepted that Robert was covered by Ariadne's ample offering, but they weren't living together yet so he figured Robert probably felt as though he was still his own separate entity. Even though Arthur had extended his invitation through Ariadne. 

Well, it had either been that or their work email; he didn't have Robert's phone number or personal email. Yeah, and okay, technically he could've _asked_ Ariadne for this particular information... but it had just been easier to tell her she could bring Robert if she wanted.

Which had definitely been an asshole way to put it, but Arthur was on edge and crabby, and he knew that Ariadne was giving him some room and quite a bit of slack because of this. At least until she figured out what was causing it.

Not that she was ever going to find _that_ out! Because that would have been effectively the end of Arthur's world, and certainly the end of their friendship.

At any rate, she'd said she would bring Robert and that had worked just fine. And Arthur had been... surprisingly pleased when Robert had shown up with her, he had to admit. Even though he couldn't have said why.

For his part, Eames hadn't been excited about the idea of a barbeque. But then nothing much excited him these days. He was moping around like a teenager... like a teenager who'd had his heart broken. 

Arthur _really_ didn't want to dwell on that last thought.

Eames did perk up a little once everyone arrived, though he was still noticeably low-key. Ariadne quirked a brow at Arthur, but he wasn't about to share with her. James didn't notice, but Phillipa seemed to be going out of her way to be charming and engaging, and it did work a bit at bringing Eames out of his brittle shell.

Ariadne was edgy around Cobb's children, like she'd been the other two or three times before now that they'd been in the same space. She began putting a dent in the wine Robert had brought almost immediately, even though Eames was keeping both James and Phillipa occupied. Arthur thought it was kind of funny and wondered whether this was going to change when and if she had kids of her own. Emphasis on _if_.

The men collected around the grill, drinking beer, sipping wine, and in Arthur's case sticking to soda as they "helped" him cook the meats. Arthur didn't mind. It helped to keep his mind off of Eames, and how difficult it was to behave normally around his nephew, the way he was supposed to behave around him. And he actually did enjoy their company, even though he ignored their advice in terms of when to flip the burgers.

After a while Cobb wandered away to get another drink, and he and Ariadne wound up sitting at the picnic table Arthur had hauled out of the shed and set up on the back patio, chatting quietly. Which wasn't the weirdest thing Arthur had ever seen but it was a little unexpected. They knew one another, of course, but only slightly and only through Arthur. 

Once Eames was done humoring Cobb's kids -- something he did for far longer than Arthur would have managed -- he set them up inside with the game system Arthur had bought him and rejoin the adults in the backyard.

Eames came over to stand next to Arthur, and Arthur could feel every inch of air between them vibrating with tension and unspoken words. He did his best not to stiffen, not to behave differently, but he had to admit that he felt an overwhelming rush of relief when Robert went to refresh his wine and Eames wandered after him.

Cobb vanished -- maybe to pee, maybe to check on his kids, maybe both -- while Ariadne brought Arthur a fresh soda. Then, after Cobb came back out, both of them began collecting plates and condiments and buns and all the other things that they were going to need shortly, because, as Arthur warned them, he was nearly finished cooking off all the meat.

Arthur had to crane his neck a bit unsubtly to see what Eames and Robert were doing in the meantime. The two of them were standing in the shade of the dojo, heads close together, and Arthur narrowed his eyes. But they appeared to just be talking. Eames had a water, not a beer, and Robert wasn't touching him inappropriately; not the way Jude had done. 

Well, it wasn't as though Arthur had expected he would. After all, as he'd told Eames, he was pretty sure Robert was straight. And not someone who would perv over a fifteen year old, _unlike Arthur himself_ his brain supplied snidely. Besides, Robert had Ariadne, and for all his faults Arthur highly doubted infidelity was one of them.

Just as the sizzling of the last burger drew Arthur's attention back to the grill, he could see Eames reaching up to knuckle at one of his eyes, but he was smiling a little as he did so. 

Arthur was curious and concerned and more than slightly jealous, especially when Robert squeezed Eames' shoulder briefly with a somewhat sad smile of his own, and then it struck him abruptly. Robert had lost his father just a little before Moira had been killed in the accident. So, even though he hadn't evidently been as close to Maurice Fischer as Eames had been to his mother, Robert knew what it was like to lose a parent. That was surely what he and Eames had been talking about.

"Dinner's ready!" Arthur called, feeling absolutely no guilt at breaking up Robert and Eames' little tete-a-tete, even though it had been the major part of his reason for having this barbeque in the first place; so that both he and Eames would have someone else to talk to, other people to break the uncomfortable silences between them.

Without prompting Eames went inside to fetch Phillipa and James while Robert poured out the last of the wine. To Arthur's mild surprise, he handed it to Ariadne with a light kiss that was so casual and unstudied that it made his heart ache a little. 

That they made one another happy was obvious, and maybe that alone meant that Robert was good enough for Ariadne.

Maybe.

It was the way he and Eames had been, Arthur thought ruefully as everyone tumbled toward the table and loaded up their plates. Before. Well, without the kissing, of course. But they'd been easy and affectionate and he _missed_ that. He missed it so much.

If only had hadn't gone and fucked it all up with that ill-advised handjob.

"Great sauce, as always," Cobb enthused, biting into his burger, then lunging to catch James' hot dog before it shot out the wrong end of the bun with his first humorously ambitious bite.

"Actually, Eames made it," Arthur informed Cobb proudly, grinning for what felt like the first time in ages, even though it had only been a few stressful days and lonely nights. He might prickle with guilt and conflicting emotions every time he looked at his nephew, but that didn't mean he stopped being proud of and pleased by Eames' accomplishments. And Eames had taken Arthur's father's barbeque sauce recipe and done it justice, made it his own.

"That's great," Ariadne said, since Cobb was currently arguing with his son about whether cutting his hot dog into bite-size pieces would rob it of its flavor. Arthur took a brief moment to be grateful that Eames had been a teenager when he'd come into his care and not James' age or younger. Arthur couldn't imagine having to raise a child, even if that child was Eames. It was hard enough being the guardian of a fifteen year old.

Eames flushed and cast his gaze down, seeming embarrassed by the praise, even though he'd completely earned it. Another testament to his verbally abusive grandfather, Arthur thought bitterly. And maybe that was something else he and Robert had been bonding over. Robert's father had been much the same, from all reports.

"I just followed directions," Eames gruffed, licking grease and sauce off his lips and Arthur had to avert his eyes quickly, checking to make sure Phillipa was being quiet because she was eating and not for any other reason. Which she was, though she was listening to the adults converse with bright eyes and big ears, as she always did when she wasn't involved herself. "Anyone can follow directions," Eames further demurred.

Robert, Ariadne, and Arthur all snorted at this, and then the three of them immediately began trying to top one another with stories about assholes from their respective jobs that disproved Eames' words completely. 

This spirited exchange somehow devolved into Robert and Arthur swapping horror stories about Jude, each worse than the one before, and by the time the meal was winding down it was just the two of them discussing work, Eames and Ariadne talking about painting, and Cobb listening in on both conversations, commenting occasionally while helping his children finish their food and cleaning up their faces for them; though that last was mostly James.

It was just as pleasant as Arthur had wanted and far more so than he had expected. Even Eames seemed to lose a little of the misery he'd been wallowing in since their uncomfortable conversation in the kitchen the morning after... _that_.

Cobb bailed early, right after dessert, but Arthur couldn't blame him. James was getting cranky and Ariadne wasn't the only one uncomfortable being around him when that happened. Cobb was sensible enough not to expect Eames to babysit, pragmatic enough to know he needed to get James to bed, and polite enough to leave without a fuss. He did, however, let both Arthur and Eames know he'd had a good time. Arthur really appreciated that he'd included Eames in that.

Phillipa hugged Arthur and Eames goodbye, but she didn't know Ariadne or Robert well enough for hugs. Actually, Arthur reflected for a moment, she'd met Ariadne more than she had Eames. But Eames was easy and friendly with Phillipa, and that was entirely aside from the crush that Cobb had said she had on him. So in a way it kind of made sense.

Ariadne didn't even notice, probably wouldn't have been offended even if she had, and seemed relieved to see Cobb's kids go. She and Robert helped Arthur and Eames carry everything inside, then she stayed in the house to do dishes with Eames while Robert and Arthur scrubbed the grill and carted the picnic table back to the shed. 

Once everything was clean, washed, and put away, the four of them flopped in the living room to relax. Arthur put on some coffee and they nibbled at leftover dessert sweets while they talked. The four of them passed a quiet but pleasant evening, then Ariadne and Robert were on their way around eleven and it was pretty much time to retire for the night.

All things considered, the barbeque had been a success. But Arthur and Eames were still alone at the end of it, even though they were in the house together. And each of them went to their own separate, lonely bed when it was time to sleep.

Arthur hated it and he knew that Eames hated it, but he just didn't see how they could be doing anything differently.

He ached to give Eames everything he wanted, and yet what Eames wanted... was something he very much could not have. Even if it was something that Arthur wanted as well.

That was just the way it was going to have to be. And there was nothing Arthur could do to change that fact.

He shouldn't _want_ to change it.

***

A little surprisingly, Ariadne called Arthur as he was on his way down the hall to his bedroom, even though it had been less than an hour since he'd seen her off at his front door. 

It was probably just as well she called, because Arthur could _hear_ Eames showering in the main bathroom through a cracked-open door, and why he was bathing _now_ was a question eclipsed by the mental image of Eames naked, wet, heat-flushed, maybe his uncut dick hard and heavy in his hand....

So, yeah, really a good thing that Ariadne called when she did. Because hearing her voice on the phone pretty effectively killed Arthur's boner, and that could only be for the best.

"Thank you, Arthur," was the first thing she said, and this was a little confusing because she'd already thanked him for inviting her to the barbeque, just before she and Robert had taken off.

"For what?" Arthur asked blankly, closing his bedroom door and shutting out the sounds of water hitting tile and flesh. He was dead certain that Eames hadn't left the bathroom door ajar by accident. He wondered whether Eames was jerking off with his left hand and whether he was ever going to forgive Arthur. He also wondered if he was ever going to forget the silky-supple feeling of having Eames' hard, leaking dick in his hand, pulsing against his palm, juicing over his fingers....

"For treating Robert like an actual human being," Ariadne answered him, and there went Arthur's burgeoning erection, thank _God_ , banished both by Robert's name and the fact that Ariadne was speaking it. He was on the phone with _Ariadne_ , for fuck's sake. Now was _not_ the time to be reliving the handjob he had given his _fifteen year old nephew_.

"Um, he _is_ an actual human being?" Arthur pointed out. Reasonably, he thought, and only a little snottily.

"Yeah, but up until now you've sort of been treating him like something you found on the bottom of your shoe," Ariadne informed him bluntly, because she never had been one to pull her punches. Arthur had always found this to be an admirable trait, but sometimes he wound up on the wrong side of it. Like right now, as he grimaced and winced.

"Sorry," he offered, because they both knew it was true, and nothing would come of protesting. Also because he _was_ sorry. It was almost a little surprising to realize it, but he'd enjoyed Robert's company today and he did feel bad about being such a dick to him previously.

"What brought about the change of heart?" Ariadne asked curiously, rather than castigating him further or offering to absolve him of guilt. It was the simple truth, but there was no point in dwelling on it. Especially now that things had changed so drastically. "You spent more time talking to Robert than you did to me today. And you didn't _have_ to."

Arthur knew Ariadne well enough to recognize that she wasn't feeling slighted, was just pointing out a fact. After all, she'd spent almost the entire time talking to Eames and sometimes Cobb. 

"So what changed?" she pursued, and since he had absolutely no reason not to, Arthur went ahead and told her the truth.

"It was Eames. He asked me why I was being such an asshole to Robert, after that night you brought dinner over. Then he asked me whether you had a habit of getting involved with losers."

Ariadne snorted out a small laugh.

"It wasn't a dumb question; he hasn't actually known you that long," Arthur defended, even though he'd had to reach the same conclusion himself earlier. He continued; "Of course, I had to tell him that you generally don't. So once we'd established _that_ and once I admitted that Robert had improved since I first met him, I realized that I was the one who needed to modify my behavior. After all," he added, because he couldn't not. "It's not as though _anyone_ is ever going to be good enough for you."

"Aw, you're making me blush," Ariadne chuckled. She definitely wasn't blushing, Arthur knew, but she was flattered and maybe a little embarrassed. "That's a ridiculous thing to say, but it's sweet. And however it happened, I really appreciate the way you're more comfortable with Robert now."

"I'm not saying we're best buddies now or anything," Arthur demurred, driven by his need for specificity. "But like you said, I'm treating him like an actual human being. It helps that he _is_ different now than he was back when I first met him."

"First impressions are important," Ariadne told him seriously. "But so is recognizing and acknowledging when someone has changed. Especially when it's for the better."

"You're happy with him? He's treating you right?" Arthur asked, just so he could hear it, not because he doubted.

"You know he is or I wouldn't have brought him today," Ariadne grumbled, though there was an undertone of amusement to her voice. She was humoring Arthur and they were both aware of this but she didn't seem to mind. Then her voice turned serious. "Speaking of happiness or the lack thereof... what's up with Eames?"

Arthur physically winced, glad she couldn't see it over the phone, his stomach bottoming out. Of all the questions he hadn't wanted her to ask, this was the one he _really_ didn't want to answer.

"Just... typical teenage drama," he mumbled, sure that Ariadne would be able to hear the lie in his voice but unable to come up with anything better on the fly. He certainly couldn't tell her the _truth_.

"Mm." To her credit she didn't call him on the blatant falsehood, nor did she fire off any more penetrating questions, though she could have done. Maybe she even _should_ have done, but Arthur was incredibly grateful for her tactful restraint.

"How did he seem when you talked to him today?" he asked anxiously. He knew how Eames had been moping around the house the last couple of days -- much like he himself had been -- but he could really use an outside viewpoint. Besides which, he always had valued Ariadne's input.

"Sad," she replied disconcertingly quickly. "Sort of sad, anyway. Quieter than usual. Thoughtful. Not too different but... subdued."

Arthur didn't really know what to say to this. It was his fault Eames was down... but it wasn't as though he could have _given in_ to Eames' sexual demands. How could he have? That was just... no!

"Have _you_ talked to him about it?" Ariadne asked. "Whatever his 'drama' is?"

He could _hear_ the quotations marks, and it was clear that Ariadne wasn't buying his lame, vaguely-worded excuse. Maybe, _maybe_ she would have done if Eames was in school, or if he and Arthur lived in town and Eames had actually made any friends his own age, any friends who weren't _her_ , but as it stood....

"We talked about it," Arthur said carefully, not wanting to lie anymore but not willing to give too much away, either. "There's really not anything either of us can do about it."

"Well, good luck," Ariadne told him, not flippantly but mercifully not pursuing the subject. She'd known him long enough to know when to back off, and this was definitely one of those times. Even if she didn't know why and couldn't ever know. "To both of you."

"Thanks," Arthur said and now their conversation had come full circle and it was him thanking Ariadne. So they said their goodbyes and Arthur got ready for bed.

He still missed sleeping with Eames. Desperately missed it, but that way lay disaster. Hell, disaster _had already happened_ , and they were never going to be the same because of it.

So Arthur resigned himself to being lonely and alone, he fell asleep lonely and alone, and he had every intention of remaining that way.

Unfortunately for him, he was not the only factor in this equation and one plus one equaled two just as easily as a teenage boy could sneak into a sleeping man's bed.

In other words, Eames was stubborn, resourceful, and conniving... and Arthur was screwed.


	10. Chapter 10

The first time Eames had gotten Arthur involved in his sexual antics he had come right out and asked for what he'd wanted, and then demanded to talk about it the next morning. It was probable that this forthrightness had given Arthur a false sense of security. Because when Eames climbed in bed with him and just _took_ , it caught him completely by surprise.

It maybe shouldn't have. But being half asleep had him off guard, and Eames was under the covers with him, curled back up against his chest as though he had never left it, before Arthur even realized it was happening in reality and not in a hazy dream.

"What?" he mumbled, peeling his eyes open. It was dark, and Eames was warm and softly breathing right up against him. One of Eames' hands was on his chest, his thigh slung over Arthur's nearer leg, and there were soft lips moving along the edge of his jaw.

"Hush," Eames murmured, and he shifted smoothly, his hand moving until his palm was resting, heated and slightly sweaty against Arthur's shoulder, his mouth closing over Arthur's in a kiss that echoed the kiss Arthur had given him. After they had both come when Arthur had given Eames a handjob and rubbed himself off against Eames' ass. 

Before he caught himself, Arthur found that he was kissing Eames back. His own hand came to rest on Eames' shoulder, not tugging him down, but definitely not pushing him away.

If he'd been fully awake and alert, of course, Arthur would never have given in to his instincts, to the encouraging, filthy words that Eames was whispering against his mouth, to the slick slide of Eames' tongue moving over his lips, between his teeth, twining with his own tongue. But he felt like he was still dozing, felt as though this might just be a delicious dream offered him by his subconscious. 

Or maybe he was just in denial. He didn't _really_ think this was a dream... he just didn't want it to end. It felt too right, to be this close to Eames, to be touching him, to be tasting him....

Eames' shoulder was bare underneath Arthur's hand. He smelled clean, like the soap and shampoo he always used, but also salty and rich with arousal. It was intoxicating, reminding Arthur of all the best times he'd had in bed, of being in bed with Eames that one night....

"I want to put your cock in my mouth," Eames was murmuring against Arthur's chin as his fingers trailed, teasing but not light, heavy enough to _feel_ , down the planes of Arthur's chest and belly, sinking into his pubes, pads barely brushing the root of his suddenly thickening dick.

Arthur's erection thought that this was a magnificent idea. Arthur's brain, on the other hand, stuttered and while it didn't come to a grinding halt, certain warnings of _wait, wrong_ began to filter through the haze of arousal.

"Eames, wait," he gasped out, but Eames wasn't paying his words the least bit of attention as he mouthed his way down Arthur's neck, then scooted briskly down to crouch between Arthur's thighs before he could bring his legs together.

"Don't worry," Eames rasped, sounding sexed out already, older than his fifteen years, or at least more experienced. And Arthur really didn't like to think about how Eames might have gotten any such experience. "I've got you."

Arthur was going to protest. He was going to sit up. He was just about to roll out of bed and to hell with it, if he had to flee his own bedroom and sleep on the sofa, then that was what he was going to do--

Then Eames fished his hard, pulsing dick out of his boxers, finessing it through the slit without hesitation or fumbling, and before Arthur could process that it had just happened, it was engulfed in tight, wet, heated suction.

"Oh, fuck!" he swore. It felt like the top of his head had exploded, as unsexy as this thought was. Arthur had gotten blowjobs before, of course he had, plenty of them since he'd been old enough to begin having sex with partners. And despite his confidence while handling Arthur's dick, Eames clearly wasn't an expert at _this_. But the fact that it was _Eames_ , that Arthur's hard-on was in Eames' mouth, between those lips he had been lusting after since the very time he had seen his nephew... well, that got to Arthur in a way that was impossible to ignore or deny.

He swore again, struggling not to move, to thrust, as Eames took him down so far he ought to have gagged. Arthur was well endowed, he knew with no sense of false modesty, and while Eames might not be very practiced at giving head, he clearly had little to no problem with his gag reflex.

Arthur's breath was tight in his chest, coming out in small panting gasps, as Eames' throat closed around his dick, clenching convulsively as he evidently swallowed around it. 

Eames pulled up but not all the way off with a slurping sound that Arthur could barely hear over the gust of his own heavy breathing, the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. The shaft of his dick was chilled, wet with saliva and exposed to the air for all of a few seconds, before Eames' hand closed around it, holding on tightly, strong and sure, and his tongue was curling around the head, lapping up the leaking pre-ejaculate and teasing at the sensitive slit.

Arthur allowed his fingers to crawl into Eames' messy hair, telling himself vaguely that he was going to pull him off and away from his straining erection, even though he totally didn't believe himself. Instead, he found he was simply holding on as Eames stayed there a moment, sucking vigorously at the head of his dick, hand jerking with exquisite roughness over the shaft, before sinking down again to the root.

Eames' jaw had to be aching, the thought flittered through Arthur's head, but he allowed it to slide away, because what Eames was doing felt too amazing. His teenage nephew repeated the process several more times, each time dragging a throttled cry out of Arthur, his tongue eager and lithe around the head of his dick, his lips tight around the base, and Arthur couldn't decide which felt better, wanted to move his hips and drive into that welcoming heat, that close clench. But he wasn't going to risk hurting Eames, and besides, by the time he felt as though he had the slightest bit of control over his limbs, he was shaking and crying out more loudly as he came down Eames' throat.

His orgasm was wrenched from him almost unwilling, settling in his tight balls and yanking, and he didn't even have time to utter a garbled warning before he was shooting into Eames' mouth. But then nothing seemed to matter outside the encompassing warmth unspooling through him, radiating outward and turning his brain to mush, washing through his limbs and dropping him to flop down on the mattress in a trembling heap of loose limbs.

It was dark in his room, but he was absolutely _sure_ that Eames was smirking as he left off of Arthur's throbbing dick with one last sweep of his tongue over the throbbing slit, then crawled up Arthur's body in order to kiss him again, his lips hot, swollen, wet with saliva and salty with semen.

"I've wanted to do that since the first time I saw you, at the airport," Eames murmured, brushing his lips against Arthur's open, panting mouth in something too light to be an actual kiss, then nosing at his chin, which should have felt a little silly, but every touch between the two of them was over sensitized and sexualized now. "Wanted you to come down my throat while you held my hair."

Arthur would have snorted if he'd had the breath. He almost felt he was still dreaming, but he'd never felt more awake, even though repletion was singing his body toward slumber. He felt as though he _must_ be imagining the words Eames was saying, as they so very nearly matched his own thoughts and feelings, and there was no way that Eames had wanted him as long as he'd been wanting Eames... right?

But there was a hard, drooling erection butting up against his belly, right below his navel, as Eames begin pushing his hips into Arthur's body, and Eames was breathing just as heavily as Arthur had been, his fingers tight where he was clinging to Arthur's shoulders, his lips going lax but still mouthing at Arthur as though he wanted to kiss him forever.

And it might be the fact that he had just climaxed so spectacularly, but there was no way that Arthur was going to just leave Eames hanging like this. True, Eames was his fifteen year old nephew, his blood relation that Arthur was financially, emotionally, and morally responsible for. But he'd just blown Arthur and swallowed. Even if sexual etiquette didn't demand that Arthur return the favor, his sense of fairness did. Besides which, he'd wanted a chance to _see_ Eames uncut dick for far too long to allow the boy to simply frot against him to completion now.

"Come here," he ground out, grabbing onto Eames and rolling them both over. Eames let out a small sound of distress, but from the way he clutched frantically at Arthur, it seemed to be more because he was afraid Arthur was going to end this than that Arthur had bumped his bad hand or anything.

Once he had Eames on his back on the bed, pinned underneath him, Arthur leaned in and kissed him until they were both breathless. By this point there was no holding back and he sent his tongue to twine around Eames', chasing every last trace of his own come out of Eames' mouth, tracing the hard enamel of Eames' charmingly crooked teeth. Eames simply moaned and held on, his arms coming up tight around Arthur's shoulders and neck, his long, lean legs wrapping around Arthur's hips.

But now Eames was moving against Arthur again, grinding his hard-on into Arthur's stomach to the same rhythm as Arthur's tongue fucking into his mouth. And from the way he was writhing and whining in the back of his throat, he was far too close to coming.

So even though it killed him and dragged a bereft wail out of Eames, Arthur broke their kiss and dragged himself up and away from that gorgeous young body underneath his.

"No!" Eames protested, fingers scrabbling against Arthur's skin, slipping in the sweat he was still covered in.

"Trust me," Arthur ordered, giving Eames a wicked smile that he hoped the boy could see through the darkness filling the room. Even if he couldn't, Eames could probably hear it in his voice, and at any rate, the words and the soothing hands that Arthur ran over Eames' heaving chest and his shoulders seemed to go a small ways toward calming him. Though he was still grasping at Arthur as though he was his lifeline.... Or as though he was worried Arthur was going to vanish on him.

Arthur could feel Eames' nipples standing out erect, and his nephew jolted and let out small sounds whenever his palms slid over them. So he lingered, toying with the hard points, listening to the sounds increase, feeling Eames' breathing hitching, his hips moving restlessly. 

"Oh my fucking God," Eames gasped, and Arthur could _smell_ his pre-ejaculate, the rich scent of Eames' rising readiness filling the humid air between them. Suddenly afraid that he might be able to make Eames come just from this, he left off, stroking soothingly over the wings of Eames' ribcage instead.

Eames' head was pressed back into the pillow behind him, his neck a long, pale arch, and Arthur gave in to temptation, licking at the delicate flesh there. He could feel both Eames' racing pulse and his gasps for breath, and he moved lower, nibbling at the hard line of Eames' collarbone.

But as delicious as Eames and the small groans of pleasure he uttered were, Arthur had a goal. And as everyone who knew him was well aware, Arthur was very goal oriented.

Drawing back and away from Eames' body wasn't easy. As much because that was a lot of delicious warmth and supple tension to leave behind as because Eames was trying to cling to him, trying desperately to kiss him again.

Arthur managed it, though, and within moments he was crouched between Eames' spread thighs much the same way Eames had been between his. Unlike Eames, however, he didn't immediately set in to deepthroating. Eames had been trying to catch and keep Arthur off guard, hadn't intended to give him time to pull himself together and say no. Whereas, Arthur knew that this was something Eames wanted, and he knew he had his undivided attention.

Also, he had Eames hard, uncut dick in his hand again. And this time, he was able to see it. Oh, it was dark in his bedroom. But Eames had left the door cracked a little ways open, and evidently the bathroom light was still on, because there was just enough light for Arthur's night-adjusted eyes to see by.

As he'd noted before, Eames fit into his hand nicely. He was thick and long, especially for his age, and the shaft of his dick was slick with pre-ejaculate. Eames had clearly been leaking ever since he'd crawled naked into bed with Arthur, and it made Arthur throb with a pulse of renewed arousal, thinking about Eames getting harder and wetter as he'd been sucking at Arthur's hard-on. 

Eames was clearly on the edge, far too close to coming, but Arthur couldn't restrain himself. Now that he had Eames' dick right here, in his hand, right in front of his face, he just had to take a moment to savor the experience. 

He jacked him slowly, watching as the foreskin slid up the head and then back down, loose but not covering the crimson head entirely. Eames' dick was jerking in his grip, and as Arthur watched, more thick, clear juice built up at the tip, beading at the slit, then oozing over and down his fingers, blood hot and tempting. 

Eames loosed a throttled sound that was as much pained as pleasured, and Arthur took pity on him, sucking the tip of Eames' hard-on into his mouth. He'd wanted to play with it some more, paint his lips with the leaking pre-ejaculate, stick the tip of his tongue into the slit, maybe slide it under the foreskin if there was room... but Eames wouldn't have lasted through any of that, Arthur instinctively knew.

Case in point; he wrapped his mouth around Eames' dick above his hand and Eames shouted, arching, thrusting deeper and practically vibrating off the bed as he came all over Arthur's tongue.

Arthur let some of the hot seed filling his mouth trickle out and down his fingers, not because he couldn't swallow it all, but because it felt good and sexy and right to do so. Sharing the wealth, so to speak. And somehow, once he'd levered back up, holding onto Eames as he trembled his way through the last of his climax and some pretty impressive aftershocks, he found his hand in Eames' mouth, his nephew industriously licking and sucking his own come off of Arthur's hand.

Behind Eames' ass -- again -- Arthur's dick gave a little twitch. He wasn't a teenager and so he couldn't get hard again quite this soon, but oh, he wanted to. There was still a fullness and throbbing heat to his dick, and while Eames nursed at his fingers, making small, soft sounds of contentment, snuggling back into his body, Arthur almost felt as though he might be ready for another go around again, shortly.

Only not at all. Reason wasn't dousing him with cold water, but he knew that this had been wrong and he shouldn't have allowed it to happen. Again.

"You asked why I was always drawing yours hands," Eames rumbled, sounding fucked out and utterly satisfied, nuzzling at Arthur's palm and licking at his wrist, before taking his thumb into his hot mouth and sucking at it in a way that, yes, was definitely plumping Arthur's dick, however faintly.

Arthur sighed, pulling the covers over them both and holding Eames close. This had not been good, but it had been building a while. Evidently longer than he had known, if Eames' words were to be believed. Though Arthur really had a hard time thinking that Eames had wanted him from the first time they had seen one another.

Speaking of hands, though, something struck him that maybe he should have thought of far sooner. That maybe could have saved them all the trouble that had come down on their heads after that first handjob.

"You're practically ambidextrous with everything else," he murmured in Eames' ear, trying not to shiver as Eames switched to suckling at his index finger rather than his thumb. He refused to be distracted, however. "Do you _really_ only use your right hand to jerk off?"

For a long moment he thought Eames wasn't going to reply. But then he lightened the suction and didn't complain when Arthur pulled his hand away, though he did keep a tight grip on his wrist. "I really do," he replied, and he sounded honest. Hoarse and satiated, and when better to be completely honest than when everything else had been stripped away. "Usually use my left hand to finger my arse," he added.

And there went Arthur's traitorous dick, throbbing at this bold declaration. 

"Well." He didn't really have anything to say to that. Eames was in his arms, radiating heat and contentment, and Arthur had missed this feeling so fucking much. Granted, the sexual interactions that had come before had been unconscionable, but they were done and they'd felt so incredibly good and right.... And there had been far too many lonely nights in the last week.

It might be wrong -- it _was_ wrong -- but what was done was over with and done and neither of them could take it back. So Arthur just pulled Eames more closely into the curve of his body, nestled his face in the warmth of Eames' nape, and allowed Eames to draw his hand back up and capture his thumb in his mouth once again.

For all the time he'd watched Eames stick the caps of pens in his mouth, suck on spoons, chew on toothpicks, this was an aspect of his oral fixation Arthur hadn't anticipated... and yet he didn't protest, didn't really want to protest. Eames mouthed lazily at his thumb, making a low, contented noise even as his grip remained strong around Arthur's wrist.

If Eames had a thing for Arthur's hands and Arthur had a thing for Eames' lips, Arthur mused sleepily, his intense climax finally catching up with him and sleepiness sending ribbons of warmth and relaxation through his entire body, then what about this could be so bad? They were both indulging in what they wanted, and after the exchange of blowjobs this was hardly any more intimate....

Only it completely was. Far more intimate. Arthur wasn't about to put a stop to it, though. The past several days and nights had been miserable, and if Eames wanted to cling to him in ways that a nephew really shouldn't be with his uncle, his guardian... well, Arthur hadn't stopped or slowed this rapid descent. He might not have started it, but he'd damned well encouraged it. And it would have been just plain cruel to call it off now.

Especially when they were probably both going to be getting their first good night's sleep in far too long, Arthur thought fuzzily. He was drifting off despite the slow tugging pressure on his thumb that was echoed in his groin, and he felt happy and warm and comfortable. He hadn't had this since he and Eames had begun sleeping in their own rooms, separate, apart from one another.

It might be wrong, he acknowledged as he allowed himself to drift off to sleep, but nothing had ever felt so right.

Maybe, under the covers, wrapped around Eames, Eames' mouth locked around his thumb, this feeling of belonging was all that mattered.

***

Of course, nothing was that simple or easy in the light of morning. Not that Arthur should have or would have expected that they would be.

He also hadn't expected to blink to awareness with a weight on his pelvis, waking to find Eames _sitting on him_. Well, with Eames pinning him down, Arthur wasn't able to flee into the bathroom the way he had last time.

The fact that he had weakened and given in again, that it had all happened a second time, should have made him panic, or at least brought him to an uncomfortable wakefulness. But he was still warm and sleep-hazed, and even though they'd committed forbidden acts the night before, this was still his _Eames_ straddling his hips, gazing down at him with his own strange, soft expression. He looked sleepy and fuzzy around the edges, but also determined. And he looked as though he'd been up for a while. Which begged the question....

"Were you...." Arthur's voice came out grotty and he paused to clear his throat before asking the obvious question. "Were you watching me sleep?"

"Uh-huh," Eames replied honestly, nodding. His hair was a mess and his eyes were heavy lidded. He looked halfway between sleepy and fucked-out and he wore this look better than any fifteen year old ought to. "You look younger," he told Arthur, which was not completely unexpected, but then he added, "And beautiful," in such reverent tones that Arthur felt completely disarmed before he'd even had a chance to gird himself for battle.

As before, there was going to be a battle. There _had_ to be, much as Arthur didn't want there to be. But they couldn't....

"Eames, we can't keep doing this," he said. He wanted it to come out firm, certain, but instead it was reedy and more than a little desperate. "This whole...." He waved a hand, letting it flop loosely onto Eames' thigh, which was bare because Eames was naked, had almost definitely crawled into bed naked the night before. Arthur really kind of wished he hadn't noticed that, but there it was and he wasn't going to move his hand now. "We... we _can't_ ," he finished, his voice more controlled but his heart rate rising.

He didn't feel trapped under Eames. He felt _right_. And that was all _wrong_.

"But we did," Eames argued, sounding utterly reasonable even though they were discussing something completely unreasonable. And, well, what he had said was true, but....

"That's--" Arthur drew in a deep breath. "Yes, it happened again," he admitted, because it was kind of impossible to deny it. When they'd swallowed one another's come the evening before and spent the rest of the night cuddling. "But we _can't_."

"No, see, I've thought about all the things you said," Eames told Arthur, still sitting on his pelvis, still sounding completely reasonable, even though his uncut dick was resting on Arthur's belly and his hair was standing out in mad cowlicks on his head, haloed in the morning sunlight. His eyes were shining and clear, his expression determined. "And I've reached the very studied conclusion that it's all bullshit."

"Excuse me?" Arthur struggled up onto his elbows. When Eames showed no inclination to shift off of him, he huffed and yanked at the pillows until they were propped behind his shoulders and upper back. He still wasn't able to meet Eames' eyes on level, but at least he wasn't flat on his back any longer. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You said that it was something you did _to_ me," Eames ticked off, actually physically ticking the point off on one elegant finger, and Arthur felt a sudden, completely inappropriate flare of heat as he remembered Eames sucking the come off his fingers the night before. "But it was something I asked for in the first place, which puts it on me."

He paused, licking his lips, and Arthur was glad that his dick was behind Eames, where he couldn't see or feel it. When Arthur didn't respond -- because what Eames had said wasn't completely untrue -- he continued.

"You're older than I am and it's true that you're responsible for me, but I've got my own mind and my own desires. You can't say that I'm mature for my age on one hand and then turn around and say I don't know my own mind just because sex is involved."

"It's not just sex," Arthur felt compelled to point out, his voice a little strangled, but he had to say it. "We're _related_ , Eames. Uncle and nephew."

"So?" Eames smirked down at him, and what the heck was that expression? And did he have to go and look so charming when he was giving Arthur attitude? "I'm not a girl, so there's no risk I'll fall pregnant."

"No," Arthur protested. "Pregnancy isn't the issue and you know it. I'm your guardian. There's an inherent power imbalance there. I'm the only authority figure in your life, and--"

He broke off as Eames made a scoffing noise. 

"What?" Arthur asked, brows snapping down in a frown.

Eames shook his head. "That argument might carry more weight if I thought of you as an authority figure," he informed Arthur easily. Then he must have been able to read the expression on Arthur's face, because he hurried on.

"I'm not saying I don't respect you," he blurted, sounding even more upset than Arthur felt. "I have mad amounts of respect for you!" He waved his hands in a way that might have been amusing if this conversation hadn't been so fraught. "But a big part of the reason for that is because you've always treated me like an equal, let me make my own decisions about my life. You can't do that when it comes to _everything_ but sex. That's not fair."

Arthur stared at him silently for a moment. He understood what Eames was saying, really. And when he tried to look at it from Eames' viewpoint, from the mind of a fifteen year old -- from the fifteen year old he'd been himself, about as many years ago -- he could even sympathize. But that didn't make any of this right, not by a long stretch.

"You have to admit that this is all coming out of the blue," he said mildly, deciding it might be better to change his approach to the subject a little. "I had no idea you were at all sexually interested in me, and then suddenly you were asking me to jerk you off...."

He trailed away as Eames began laughing. 

"Seriously?" Eames queried, his eyes sparkling. "You didn't pick up on it with the staring and the touching and the cuddling and the way I was always sketching your hands... sketching you?"

Arthur scowled, but Eames had a point. "Well, we were strangers," he said a little defensively. "How was I supposed to know how you behaved normally? For all I knew, that was just the way you _were_."

Eames sobered, giving him a disconcertingly piercing look. "And that's part of it, isn't it? You talk about incest and compare yourself to my Mum, but the truth is that we'd never met before, we're virtual strangers. There's a bond of blood, but most of what's grown between us is simple affection and l-love."

He stumbled a little over that last word, his cheeks pinking, and Arthur really shouldn't have wanted to roll them both over, grind Eames into the mattress and kiss him breathless. Only he did. He totally did.

"The fact that I'm young is kind of a point," Eames allowed, ever so generously. "But you treat me like I know my own mind all of the rest of the time, so this shouldn't be a lot different. We're related, yes, but I didn't grown up looking to you as my parental figure. To me you're just an amazing person who cares about me and who gave me a chance when I was really messed up, who helped me get past the death of my mother and move on. Not all the way, because it'll always hurt. But it doesn't hurt _all the time_ anymore, and that's mainly because of you."

It was kind of unfair, Arthur thought, to bring Moira into it. Especially when Eames was sitting naked on Arthur's hips. 

"I'm glad you feel that way, Eames," he said, taking the opportunity to remove his hand from Eames' thigh and reaching up to card his fingers through his crazy hair. "I really am. But the fact remains that I'm your uncle, your legal guardian. Whether you know your own mind, whether you can get pregnant or not, whether you feel coerced into this -- which I recognize is a no on the latter two -- the truth is that I'm responsible for you. You're very mature but you're also very young. You have years and years to change your mind, to find someone that you love more than me... or differently." 

Eames was looking mulish so Arthur pressed onward. "I don't doubt that you love me. I love you. But the sexual aspect of it isn't right. At best it's transference. You're a healthy teenage male and you're obviously not confused about your sexuality but you _are_ just coming into it. I'm here and I'm taking care of you, I love you. It's not strange that you might project the one onto the other."

Instead of getting angry or offended, like Arthur might have expected, Eames merely chuckled and looked amused. "So you're saying my cock is confused?"

Arthur let out a huff. "That's not what I said."

Eames sighed and shook his head, sobering. "No, it's not. But it's close. And whether or not it's true -- which, for the record, I don't think it is -- that's not the crux of the matter."

"Then what _is_?" Arthur asked, trying not to sound too exasperated.

Instead of replying verbally, Eames leaned down and kissed Arthur warmly. His lips were plush, his tongue limber, and the inside of his mouth was hot, a fact which Arthur realized at about the same time he realized he was kissing Eames back.

Before he could move to push Eames away, his nephew was pulling back, staring down at him with those bright eyes.

"We both want this," Eames stated firmly, no room for argument. "There's no transference. I was sexually attracted to you the first moment I saw you at the airport. As soon as I was through my grieving enough to start tossing off, you were the only person I thought about. But it wasn't just physical. The more I got to know you, the more amazing you were. Arthur, you're...."

Eames faltered for a moment, and now would have been the perfect time for Arthur to say something, say anything, but he was robbed of words. None of what Eames was saying should have been surprising, but somehow it was. At the same time that it felt like something he had already known on some level.

"We both want this," Eames repeated. "Somehow. I know... I know I'm not much, but I've got a pretty mouth and I'm trying to bulk up, and I can keep up the house, and I'm learning to cook, and... well, you like my art, yeah?"

"Eames, you're easily as amazing as I am, and I'm sad that you don't know it," Arthur inserted hoarsely. Eames wasn't fishing for compliments, he knew instinctively. And even though it was _wrong_ that Eames was sitting here naked on his lap, trying to convince Arthur that it was a good idea for them to pursue a sexual relationship, he loved his nephew and he didn't want him to doubt that. Didn't want Eames to feel he had no worth to Arthur.

Eames flushed again, ducking his head, the smiled shyly, sweetly. "That's part of it," he insisted. "You actually think I'm worth your time. You actually want to be around me. I... that's.... Even Mum didn't always like spending time with me."

Arthur shifted, uncomfortable with this second mention of Moira. What would she _think_ if she could see them now? The idea hit him like a blast of cold water, killing any lingering arousal, but doing nothing to quash his feelings for Eames. 

"Look," he said, trying to sound as reasonable as Eames had been sounding. "You don't want me to pull the age card, and it does seem a little unfair. But, Eames. You are _fifteen_. You're going to change, in ways neither of us can anticipate. What you want now might seem ridiculous in a year, even six months. I'm not blowing you off. I'm _not_. But the way you want me, that might change. Bad things happen, even to good relationships. And yet I'm always going to be your uncle, always going to be your guardian. And until you turn eighteen and can support yourself, that _matters_."

"Don't!" Eames' chin crumpled, even though he didn't look in immediate danger of bursting into tears. "Don't you even--"

He stopped, sucked in a deep breath, and then gave Arthur a hard stare. 

"I've only known you a few months," he said, voice like steel. "And yet I love you more than I've ever loved anyone, other than Mum. And I love you as much as her, but in a different way. I cannot _imagine_ my life without you. I never want to be away from you for longer than a workday. So that part isn't going to change. And as far as sexual desire goes? What, are you planning on getting less attractive, somehow? Even if you did, even if you stopped working out and dressed like a slob, I wouldn't _care_. I'd still love you and still want you. Of course, it's nice that I know you're going to stay in shape and dress well, because that's part of who you are."

Eames grinned crookedly, but Arthur was distracted, trying to find the holes in Eames' logic. There really weren't any, and yet he still knew that what his nephew was suggesting couldn't be anything but a bad idea.

"I know I'm young," Eames allowed. "I'm going to change. I've already changed so much from how I was when I arrived here. But I'm going to change in ways that reflect _you_. You're the biggest influence in my life, and not in an unbalanced way. I'm not asking for you to marry me. I just want you to give me, to give _us_ a chance."

"I can't," Arthur gritted out through clenched teeth. He had to be the responsible one here. He was the one who wasn't fifteen and a slave to his hormones. Even though he knew thinking that was doing Eames a serious disservice.

Still, there was a huge difference between respecting Eames' ability to make the right choices for his life and allowing himself to touch Eames, to take advantage of Eames.

"Why do things have to change that much?" Eames asked, tilting his head and gazing down at Arthur curiously. "We'd just be carrying on as we had been, only both of us would be getting what we want. We'd be getting off regularly, with one another."

"Nothing is that simple," Arthur said, trying so hard to sound reasonable.

"Everything is that simple." Eames bit his lower lip, then bent toward Arthur, whispering as though he was telling a secret. "You think I'm ignoring the fact that what I want is morally and socially frowned on, but I'm not. I know what Ariadne would think if she knew. I know that if anyone found out they might take me away from you. I'm aware."

He straightened up again, his eyes practically glowing with fervor. "I'm not asking you for anything more than what we already have," he continued, his voice equally intense. "Only, at night I want to climb into bed with you and be able to touch you, to have you touch me. I wouldn't do anything to give us away. I'm not _stupid_."

"I know you're not." Arthur felt helpless. He couldn't agree to what Eames was proposing. But he couldn't really argue. Obviously, Eames had spent the days since that first handjob _thinking_. Coming up with watertight arguments. Arthur knew that his own points were correct. Eames was very young and his desires would change. He would be going to school soon and who knew how that might change him. He might meet his one true love. Or at the very least, someone he wanted more than he wanted Arthur.

It was a little startling how much Arthur hated that last thought. It almost made him feel angry. He was definitely disturbed by it. And it was only a hypothetical. So... maybe Eames did have a point, about the way they felt for one another.

Sensing weakness, or maybe just getting tired of waiting, Eames leaned down again, capturing Arthur's mouth with his own.

Arthur kissed him back, feverishly, fervently. Because he knew that this was going to be his last taste of the forbidden. There was just no way he could allow this to go on.

Eames seemed to know this. He looked disappointed as he drew back, his eyes dark. "That was a 'no', wasn't it." He didn't even ask it as a question, spoke it as a statement.

"I'm sorry, Eames," Arthur said.

Rather than getting upset, Eames gave him a long, hard look. One that said he could see through Arthur, that he could read the truth behind the stern expression he was trying to affect.

"You're going to be thinking about what I said." Again, it wasn't a question. Arthur responded honestly, because Eames deserved nothing less.

"You know that I will be."

Eames stared at him a moment longer, then gave him a small, crooked smile. "I can be patient," he informed Arthur confidently.

"I can be stubborn," Arthur rejoined. 

Eames outright grinned. "So can I. And I know that I'm right."

And the hell of it was, Arthur thought as Eames slid off of him and padded into the bathroom, barefoot all the way to the top of his head, that Arthur just couldn't refute that bald statement. 

No matter how much he wished he could.


	11. Chapter 11

After their morning conversation Eames evidently felt like things had gone back to normal. He didn't try to talk Arthur into sex, he made no more overtures....

On the other hand, he was back to sleeping in Arthur's bed every night. And Arthur suspected he was masturbating there during the day, while Arthur was at work. Which was something Eames hadn't outright confessed to having done before, but Arthur wasn't stupid or oblivious; he knew how to read between the lines. 

They were back to the easy touches throughout the day, hugs in the kitchen, hands on shoulders. Eames had initiated this return to how it had been, and while Arthur had tensed up the first few times, when they didn't become anything overly sexual he was just as pleased. He'd _missed_ being able to hug Eames while things had been tense between them, more than he had even known until he had it back.

It was a little rough, sharing a bed, when he knew what Eames wanted, and he knew every argument Eames had delivered to try and get his way, almost by heart. The hell of it was that they were really good arguments. Arthur felt like he maybe should have been swayed.

But it was incest and it was wrong. Despite what Eames had said, Arthur was Eames' guardian. And not only were they related, but Eames was a teenager, years away from being legally an adult. Arthur was _twice as old as he was_.

Unfortunately, Arthur could run through these reasons in his head all he wanted, all night long, and his body, his treacherous dick still _wanted_. Still wanted Eames, still wanted the pleasure that Arthur now knew for sure they could rouse in one another. He had no way of unknowing what had happened and how good it had felt.

It wasn't something that he was supposed to be dwelling on. He should have been able to shake it off, right? Incest was wrong, end of story. Underage incest.... Well, it didn't matter how consenting Eames was. The bottom line was that Arthur had to put his foot down.

This was his resolve and he was resolved. He _had_ to be.

Arthur might have been able to hold out for longer than a week and three days, if it hadn't been for the terrible five car pile-up on his way home Tuesday evening.

He wasn't in any way involved, but traffic was backed up by over an hour, and Arthur's phone wasn't charged.

How many times did he curse himself out for that oversight during the start and stop of rubbernecking traffic. Normally it wouldn't be a problem. It wasn't a prudent thing to do, of course. But _normally_ Arthur wasn't over an hour late getting home, with no way to let Eames know the reason for the delay.

He knew already that this wasn't going to go well. And he wasn't surprised in the slightest to see Eames hunched on the porch, pulled in on himself to the point that he seemed half his actual size. Arthur also wasn't surprised when Eames launched himself toward the car before he even hit the brakes in the driveway, not bothering with parking in the garage, not today, and he barely got out of the car in time to catch Eames in his arms.

He held him close, murmuring soothing sentences into Eames' hair. "I'm sorry. There was traffic and my phone was dead. I'm _so_ sorry."

He didn't think Eames could really hear him over his harsh rattling sobs, though, and he felt guilt washing over him, even though this was only a conflation of bad luck and hadn't been anything he had deliberately done.

Eames hadn't cried as though his heart was breaking in a while, and Arthur hadn't missed it. He managed to get them both inside, and somehow got them to his bedroom, pulling Eames down with him so that they were both laying on the bed, Eames sprawled over top of him, soaking his collar with tears. And probably some snot and saliva, but Arthur didn't worry about that, just held Eames close to him, rubbing his back, doing what he could to try and calm him down.

"I'm so sorry, Eames," he murmured as the sobbing tapered off, pressing soft kisses to Eames' temple, still rubbing his back. "I won't do that again, I swear. I'm sorry, Eames."

"Don't-- You said, you said you wouldn't d-die," Eames choked out, the first time he'd spoken since Arthur had gotten home. 

"I will never let my phone run down like that again," Arthur vowed, squeezing Eames tight. "I have a car charger, but I took it out for some reason. It's in the garage. I'll put it back in the car tonight."

"Not tonight," Eames rasped, clutching him even more tightly. "You're not going anywhere."

Arthur chuckled, even though his chest ached too badly for him to really feel like laughing. It hurt that Eames was so upset he couldn't bear to think of being parted from Arthur for as long as it would take him to run to the garage and back. 

"All right," he agreed mildly. He was already thinking of calling in sick the next day. He'd completely freaked Eames out, albeit accidentally, and he felt that the least he could do would be to stay home with him tomorrow.

"I'm so sorry," he repeated. "I can't say it enough, Eames. I'm sorry."

Eames sniffed and shifted against Arthur, pressing a warm kiss to the line of his jaw. "It wasn't your fault," he said hoarsely. "But it still sucked."

"Let's get cleaned up," Arthur suggested, squeezing Eames' shoulder in what he hoped was a bracing fashion. That kiss, as light as it had been, had sent a flutter of arousal through him. And in his emotionally vulnerable state right now, knowing that Eames was even more emotionally vulnerable, he couldn't get started down that road.

Besides, the shoulder and collar of his shirt were damp and clinging uncomfortably to his skin. And he was still in his work clothes.

Eames grumbled a little but he climbed off of Arthur easily enough. He didn't venture out of eye shot, though, as they both freshened up. Arthur changed into casual clothing while Eames washed his face in the master bathroom, then Eames pulled on one of Arthur's teeshirts over his own jeans, even though he'd been wearing a shirt and it had looked fine. Still, Arthur was well aware of how much Eames needed comfort right now, and if putting on one of Arthur's shirts helped with that, then he certainly wasn't going to complain.

"Dinner?" he asked, a little hesitantly. He didn't want to remind Eames of how late he'd come home, but he was getting hungry and Eames was a growing boy who needed to eat regularly.

"It's in the oven, keeping warm," Eames told him, coming over and clinging quietly, his head resting on Arthur's shoulder. His nose and eyes were a little red and his lips had been bitten raw, but he looked mostly okay. Maybe a little pale but better than when Arthur had arrived home. "It might be a bit dried out, but still edible."

Despite this declaration, despite the fact that he actually _was_ hungry, Arthur stood there and held Eames in his arms a little longer. They both needed this, but Eames needed it more. And even though it really hadn't been his fault, Arthur still felt terrible for the way he'd let Eames down, completely freaked him out.

Eames was subdued while they ate dinner, but he did reply when Arthur tried to engage him in conversation. His eyes were glassy and his hands trembled a little around his utensils, which he held more tightly than usual. Arthur felt guilt clawing at his chest. When he hadn't come home at the normal time or anything close to it, when Eames hadn't been able to reach him by phone or text, it could only have brought one thing to Eames' mind; the way he had lost his mother.

And Eames had been doing so well. Dammit. Arthur did feel a little bad that people had been seriously hurt and had possibly died in that accident. He felt sad that tonight their families would be going through what Eames had gone through when Moira had died in that car crash. But right here and right now, he was most concerned with how Eames was dealing with the resurgence of memories and the revival of pain and grief.

Not to mention the worry he had clearly been feeling where Arthur was concerned. That was what Arthur was the most responsible for and what he felt the worst about.

Once dinner was over Arthur emailed Mr. Saito, asking if he could telecommute the following day and being completely honest as to the reason. It was always a good policy to be honest with his boss, and he knew that Mr. Saito had a fondness for Eames, even though they'd only met the once, at his party. Case in point, he received a reply within the hour, telling him he could take the day off paid and not have to work from home. That way he could focus all of his attention on his nephew.

"You don't have to," Eames said. But there was a vulnerable quaver in his voice and a pinch between his brows that underlined for Arthur the fact that, yes, he really did have to. 

Other than sending two emails -- the request and his thank you to Mr. Saito -- and getting the car into the garage, Arthur spent the rest of the evening sitting on the sofa, Eames cuddled up against him while they watched a little television. Arthur was pretty sure neither of them was paying much attention to what was on the screen, but it was more the comfort of being together, being close, doing something together, that really mattered.

Eames was what was important to Arthur, and whatever barriers had been between them, they were gone now. Shattered by the fear and worry and the grief Eames still felt over his mother's death. That wasn't just going to go away, and Arthur had inadvertently brought it closer to the surface than it had been in a while. He needed to do something about that.

Knowing that memories of Moira were flowing through Eames' head should have made Arthur less inclined to feel sexually affected by his nephew's nearness... and yet this knowledge did absolutely nothing to quell the familiar heat he could feel rising in his core as he held Eames close, smelled the strong teenage scent of Eames mingling with his own on the shirt Eames was wearing, savored the sensation of Eames' broad yet graceful hands resting on his chest, his hips, or his thighs, depending on how they shifted to fit together.

As they sat together, quiet and warm, Arthur began to run through all of Eames' arguments in his head again, only this time he tried to disconnect the part of his brain that screamed "incest wrong" and "he's too young". 

It wasn't that those considerations went away, of course. But they were only family through blood and desire. It wasn't as though Arthur had raised Eames from a baby and was taking advantage of his position of power over his nephew. If anything, he was resisting solely because of that power, and it was in large part imaginary. Eames saw Arthur as an authority figure due to his respect for Arthur, not because he'd been raised to feel that way.

So they were virtual strangers who'd grown to know and love one another; definitely more like lovers than family in that respect. Especially since Arthur had barely known Eames' mother, making them that much more distant as far as familial ties went.

Arthur was actually able to completely discount any coercion or abuse of power on his part, since he was the one resisting this tooth and nail when Eames had obviously accepted it. 

Which left the age difference, and that was actually a much bigger concern. 

But, again, Eames knew his own mind. Clearly. He wasn't just fixating on getting into Arthur's pants because he was fifteen and horny and Arthur was here. That he cared deeply about Arthur was obvious. Conversely, Eames wasn't trying to talk Arthur into bed in order to win his approval, because he already knew he had it. 

As Eames had pointed out already, Arthur treated Eames like an adult in nearly every other way, let him make his own decisions. Should sex be any different? Yes, Arthur was more experienced than Eames -- he pretty much had to be considering that he was twice Eames' age -- but he wasn't using that experience to influence Eames against his better judgment. If anything, he was attempting the opposite of that.

Arthur knew he'd had a legitimate point when he'd told Eames that he would change as he got closer to adulthood, that Eames might change his mind about wanting Arthur. And if that happened, they would still be family, and that would make things incredibly awkward.

But then he thought about how horrified Eames had been by the thought of ever wanting anyone else. That was flattering and terrifying in equal parts. And Arthur thought about how much it ached when he even thought about Eames going away to college, much less getting involved with someone else.

He thought about how impossible it would be for him to meet someone himself, bring him home, introduce this hypothetical new lover to Eames....

"What's wrong?" Eames asked, as this scenario ran through Arthur's head and caused him to shudder faintly. He peered up at Arthur with a concerned wrinkle to his forehead, and it took every ounce of will power he possessed for Arthur not to kiss his pretty pink mouth.

"Nothing," he replied, mind reeling as he abruptly adjusted his thought patterns to mesh with his new realizations. Something had shifted inside, and he couldn't deny that. He probably _shouldn't_ ignore that.

It was still a monumentally bad idea; taking his own nephew as his lover when they would have to keep it secret from the entire rest of the world, up to and including their best friends. When Eames was so young and still largely unformed, when Arthur was definitely old enough to know better....

It was a _horrible_ idea. And yet Arthur had somehow come to accept that it was his only choice. Not because it was something Eames wanted. Not because it was something Arthur wanted. But because it was something they _both_ wanted, possibly needed, and he had somehow come to the conclusion that continuing to deny them both was unnecessarily cruel.

Incest was still wrong. And sex with someone underage, someone _half_ his age, who'd been in diapers when Arthur had been learning to shave... well, that was even more wrong.

But Eames was _Eames_ , and he defied all labels and stereotypes to be his own person. Arthur couldn't judge him based on the fact Eames was his nephew. He shouldn't judge him on the fact that he was only fifteen. Doing so was to do Eames a huge disservice. 

No, Arthur needed to take Eames for _who_ he was, not _what_ he was. And Eames was his fifteen year old nephew, it was true. But he was also amazing. He was everything that Arthur could have wanted and needed, before he'd ever known to want or need it. 

It wasn't an easy conclusion to reach, nor should it have been. Incest shouldn't be a simple thing. Neither should be the decision to enter into a sexual relationship with a minor. Arthur had very carefully not looked up the legal ramifications of this because he hadn't wanted to take it into serious consideration, but he was well aware that he'd be breaking several laws.

But he'd made Eames wait long enough. Had made him feel rejected and undesired, even though Arthur had made all his reasons clear. Now it was time to reverse that.

If disaster struck, if Eames went to high school and decided that he was in love with a classmate instead of Arthur, then they would deal with that when it came. But Arthur felt as though he was underestimating Eames by even allowing this possibility to enter his mind. He knew that Eames would be mortally offended by the very suggestion. And he had a sneaking suspicion that it actually wasn't very likely to happen.

That Eames loved Arthur was unquestionable. Somehow it had become more than the love a boy had for his uncle, his parental figure, his guardian, but Arthur didn't see any way this could have played out differently.

Likewise, Arthur loved Eames in ways that a man should not love his nephew. But it had happened and it was real. It wasn't going to go away. So he should stop tormenting them both and give in to what they both wanted. Needed.

"Arthur?"

He smiled down at Eames, running his fingers through his messy hair, then pressed a warm kiss to his temple. 

"Come on," he said softly, raising the remote and turning off the television. "Let's go to bed."

***

They got ready for bed like normal, taking turns in the bathroom, undressing, brushing their teeth, Arthur washing his face. The fact that Eames' toothbrush was in Arthur's bathroom indicated a lot, Arthur thought with a startling amount of affection. He poked at his resolve and did not find it wanting. He was pretty sure that this was going to work. It was going to be fine. And if not, then he and Eames would work things out. 

There was love between them and nothing was going to wreck that. Arthur actually felt supremely confident in this. Maybe he shouldn't have. Eames was only fifteen and he was Arthur's nephew. But they were solid, Arthur was sure.

As they both came to stand beside the bed, Arthur paused and Eames gave him a concerned look. They were both in their boxers and nothing else, since the weather was still fairly warm, and so Arthur could feel Eames' bare flesh under his hands when he pulled him in for a soft but certain kiss.

Arthur knew that this was most likely completely unexpected. He was aware that he was probably going to confuse Eames. What he wasn't expecting was for Eames to break the kiss and push him away. At least as far as the arms Arthur kept locked around his slender waist would allow.

Eames' rich, kiss-bruised lips twisted, his eyes dark and brow furrowed. "Arthur," he said, sounding confused but firm. "If this is some sort of... of sympathy screw, or an apology for something that wasn't really your fault, then you can just forget about it."

"No, Eames. No...." Arthur was a little offended that Eames could think this of him, but he also realized that Eames had in no way been privy to what had been going on in his mind and so he had no way to recognizing that Arthur had come to a concrete decision. This change of heart probably did seem more than a little as though it was coming out of left field. 

"No," he repeated more calmly. "This isn't... any of that. Believe it or not, I've been thinking about everything that you said to me. Considering it. I wasn't just ignoring you or dismissing it out of hand. And while I still don't agree with absolutely everything... I do feel that this is the right thing for us to do."

Eames raised his brows, eyes going wide. "Are you sure?" 

"I am," Arthur replied with all the certainty that he knew he felt.

Eames stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. "Let's get one thing perfectly clear," he said, in his most earnest tone, his hands warm and steady on Arthur's shoulders. "You are _not_ the creepy uncle who's bad-touching his nephew when he's too young to know better. I may not legally be an adult, but I'm giving my informed consent. In fact, most of the time I feel like I may die if I don't get this."

Arthur arched a brow. "You _do_ realize that this intensity is part of being a teenager, and part of why I was reluctant," he felt compelled to point out.

"I know." Eames shrugged, giving him a crooked smile that wasn't quite sheepish but wasn't too far from it. "But even if you don't feel it as _intensely_ as I do... you still feel it, right?" Now he looked less certain, and Arthur reminded himself of the way he'd been struggling against Eames' huge inferiority complex all this time.

"I wouldn't have kissed you and agreed to give us a chance if I didn't," he replied seriously.

"Is that what you're agreeing to?" Eames asked, and now he was smirking at Arthur, uncertainty banished. "I think you might need to learn to use your words."

Arthur raised one brow. "I thought actions spoke louder than words."

Eames snorted. "Yeah, I tried that and all I got in return was _Eames, we need to talk_."

There was absolutely something Arthur could have said in response to this sassy and painfully accurate sally, but then they wouldn't be kissing, and he really wanted to get going with that. After so many months of denying himself. Of denying Eames. Of denying _them_.

Eames made a surprised little sound into the kiss, but then he responded enthusiastically. And not by pushing Arthur away this time. Instead he clung to him and arched into it. 

His tongue in Eames' mouth, Arthur unceremoniously shoved Eames' boxers down to puddle around his feet. It would save them time later, and this way he would get to look at Eames in the lamp light. All of Eames, but mostly his uncut dick. Not that Arthur was obsessed or anything. 

Well, maybe a little.

He loved everything about Eames, of course. His personality most of all. His face, his bright eyes, his full, ruddy lips. He was still young and though he was still more wiry than built he was putting on muscle and already looked spectacular. But there wasn't anything wrong with being fascinated by Eames' penis as well. And Arthur really doubted that Eames would have any problem with it if he knew.

In fact, by the time they were through tonight, Arthur kind if intended that Eames recognize how fixated he was on his dick, because he intended to do some serious worshiping at that altar. So to speak.

"Hey," Eames mumbled against his mouth, but Arthur could feel the corners of his lips turning up in a smile.

"You can take mine off too," Arthur offered as he reluctantly broke their kiss, smiling back. 

Almost before he got the words out, Eames' hands were at his waistband. His fingers curled on the elastic, nails blunt against the skin of Arthur's hips. This sent a shiver through Arthur and his hands tightened a little on Eames' shoulders. Before he could rein himself in, he dragged Eames back into his arms again and claimed his mouth as he stepped out of his own boxers.

This was the first time he'd been pressed up close against Eames, both of them bare, while completely free of guilt. Or, well, almost completely. Despite his resolve, it wasn't easy to discount a lifetime's worth of social conditioning. But inasmuch as he _could_ let go of all guilt, he had already done so.

Eames groaned, moving eagerly into Arthur's embrace, his hips moving restlessly to grind his rapidly hardening dick against Arthur's.

While this was in no way unpleasant -- in fact, it felt quite good -- it was moving things along a bit faster than Arthur had intended. He wanted to savor this. And, yes, Eames was a teenager and could probably come more than once before Arthur was finished, but that didn't mean that Arthur wasn't going to take this at his own pace. Because that was what he fully intended to do.

"Get on the bed," he instructed, reluctantly releasing Eames from his arms, hands sliding over every inch of naked flesh he could manage as he took one step back.

Eames pouted up at him, but he was smart enough to know when something was in his own best interest, and so he did as Arthur had directed, flopping on his back on the bed.

He didn't seem at all shy about his nudity, though there was a pink flush to his cheeks that probably wasn't entirely arousal. His erection jutted up proudly from his pubes and Arthur was pleased and not a little relieved to note that Eames was definitely all grown up here.

Fifteen was incredibly young, he thought ruefully. He still wasn't going to change his mind, and he trusted Eames to know his own feelings on the matter, but Eames had done so little living, had so much more of his life to experience.

It was up to Arthur to make sure that Eames lived his life well, and that was what Arthur intended to do. And if this living well happened to include underage incestuous sex... well, no one else would understand, but both Arthur and Eames had agreed that it was the best thing for _them_.

Every relationship was unique, and maybe theirs was more so than most, but that didn't mean that it wasn't legitimate. Arthur was still a little afraid of breaking Eames' heart, somehow, but it was better to be the one who held Eames' heart, cradling it in careful hands, than to watch someone else callously damage him, carelessly hurt him. 

Arthur was going to do his damnedest to never break Eames' heart. And if Eames broke Arthur's heart... well, then it would happen. There was no use in worrying about it ahead of time. 

In every other aspect of his life Arthur planned ahead, he analyzed every detail, but in love he had always, always followed his heart. It had on occasion brought him grief, but more often things worked out for the best. And right now his heart was telling him he needed to be on that mattress with Eames.

Or maybe that was his hard-on talking.

"Come on," Eames urged, wriggling a little and extended a hand toward Arthur. "Stop thinking and start doing."

"Maybe I'm just enjoying the view," Arthur challenged, arching a brow.

"Naw, I know that look," Eames scoffed. "You're thinking away. I can see it." He frowned faintly, not sitting up but hunching into himself a little. "You're not having second thoughts _now_ , are you?"

"No," Arthur wasn't going to let Eames think that he had any doubts. Maybe he should have, but he didn't. And he definitely didn't want Eames to lose any faith in him, didn't want him to think that Arthur wasn't as committed to this as he was. "No, definitely not."

Since there was no reason not to, he joined Eames on the bed. Yes, Eames was fifteen, but he was smart and gifted and it might sound cliched but he was very mature for his age. This was probably the dumbest thing Arthur had ever done, but there was nothing he had ever done had felt so right at the same time.

Well, okay, in all honesty probably the dumbest thing Arthur had done had been when he'd slept with Jude. But now was _not_ the time to be thinking about that. That was in the past and had been a one-time thing. This was now and it was forever, for good.

Eames welcomed him with open arms and a wide grin. Arthur took half a second to appreciate his adorably crooked teeth, then sealed his mouth over Eames' and licked his way between those teeth, tangling their tongue together and kissing the minty flavor of Eames' toothpaste away until all he could taste was the simple, unadulterated heat and wet of Eames' mouth that was left behind.

Eames locked his arms around Arthur's neck, pulling Arthur down so that their torsos were pressed close, his fingers twining through Arthur's hair. Arthur touched Eames in return, hungry, wishing that he'd thought to cop a feel of Eames' tight young ass while they'd both been standing, when it would have been easier. Not that he didn't have years ahead of him in which to do so. Hell, he could do it right now, and he _was_ going to grope him before the evening was done, one way or another. 

The realization that he _could have_ Eames, that he _could touch him_ whenever he wanted zinged through Arthur, plumping his dick and making his heart rate accelerate.

Eames gasped, arching his head back into the pillow as Arthur made his way down his neck, carefully not marking him but leaving behind a trail of moist, tingling skin. 

This was so much different than fumbling handjobs or spontaneous blowjobs in the dark. It was so much _better_. Eames had thrown out the words "informed consent" earlier, but it really did make a difference, knowing that they were both on the same page. Granted, it had been Arthur who'd been holding back previously. But however it had happened, they were now ready to do the same thing at the same time, together.

And that thing was sex.

Not penetrative sex. Arthur still had _some_ morals, after all. They hadn't outright discussed it, it was true, but from the way that Eames was reacting to Arthur's touch so strongly, Arthur more than suspected that Eames was still a virgin. Also, he was only fifteen. 

But Arthur didn't generally have penetrative sex with a new partner the first time they tumbled into bed anyway. And while he and Eames had gotten off in one another's company twice before, this was the first time they'd come to a mutual agreement that it was a good idea, which made it something like their first time; at least as far as Arthur was concerned.

"You're thinking again," Eames huffed, staring down at him with heavy-lidded eyes, his fingers still locked in Arthur's hair. 

Arthur smirked and nipped at Eames' collarbone, carefully not hard enough to bruise. He wasn't generally the sort to go leaving hickeys everywhere, but with Eames it was even more important that he not do so, not leave anything that anyone would question. Even though, for the first time, he felt a possessiveness that might otherwise have led to leaving hickeys or bite marks.

He didn't reply, but he did resolve to stop thinking so much. Sex was simple and Eames deserved his whole, undivided attention. 

Besides, if Arthur was so sure that he was sure, he really shouldn't spend so much time over-thinking things now.

Arthur palmed Eames' narrow hips as he took a moment to lick and suck at those tempting pink nipples. The sounds that Eames made were positively sinful... but then, what better word was there to describe having sex with one's fifteen year old nephew? 

And now that he was okay with the taboo aspect of this, suddenly it became a surprisingly huge kink that Arthur had never before known he'd had.

Certainly the facts of Eames being both extremely underage and Arthur's nephew were not reasons for him to be with the boy. But they definitely added a tint of dirtybadwrong to proceedings that ramped up Arthur's arousal and had him groaning as though he was the one whose nipples were being nibbled on.

But if he was turned on, Eames was clearly even more so, from the way he whined and the way his spine stretched, arching into the hot-wet ministrations of Arthur's mouth, the way his fingers clenched in Arthur's hair, twisting almost tightly enough to bring tears to his eyes.

Arthur certainly didn't mind. He enjoyed the passion behind a little hair-pulling, and he was more than pleased to have triggered this reaction in Eames.

It was going to be incredible, he thought briefly -- even though he was supposed to stop thinking -- learning everything there was to know about Eames' body and his responses, allowing Eames to do the same to him in return.... Arthur was very much looking forward to this.

"Arthur," Eames ground out, and he was pleading, but Arthur didn't know whether it was for him to continue or for him to stop.

It didn't really make a difference, although he bookmarked Eames' nipples in his mind for extended play at some point in the future. Planned on toying with them, pinching them, sucking them, seeing just how sensitive Eames was and how much response he could drag out of him before Eames came or one of them broke and grabbed his leaking dick and stripped his orgasm right out of him....

Speaking of which, Arthur wanted to get his hands, eyes, and mouth on that delicious, delicate yet powerful piece of equipment again, this time in the full light of his bedside lamp. 

Completely aside from his own desires, he thought that things would go more smoothly for both of them if he got Eames off once before they settled in for some serious lovemaking. And always before he had hated that phrase, had found it trite and hackneyed. But with Eames it seemed to fit. Because why were they doing this if not because of the love they felt for one another?

Well, and horniness. A huge, rip-snorting amount of horniness. Arthur had been holding off on touching, tasting, taking Eames the way he had wanted almost since they had first met -- less those two lapses in control -- and by this point he had a lot of pent up frustration to let loose.

In a safe, healthy, sane way, of course. In ways that would bring Eames as much pleasure as they did Arthur, if not more so. Arthur had been fifteen years old himself, even if it had been a while ago, and so he knew that it was almost guaranteed that he'd be able to get Eames off twice before they were done, if not more than that. He really missed having that refraction time, but at least he'd be able to put it to good use in having sex with Eames.

There was a certain amount of urgency flaring in the space between them, underlined by the way Eames' fingers scrabbled at Arthur as he scooted lower, kissing and licking his way down the taut muscles of Eames belly, but he took his time regardless. 

It might make him an asshole, but he wanted to savor this experience. To take his time and make it good for Eames was well.

Eames might argue this, the way he was whining and squirming, grasping as Arthur's skull through his completely mussed hair. His thighs flexed restlessly to either side of Arthur as he nosed at Eames pubes, down by the root of his demanding dick. Arthur could smell the musky richness of Eames' arousal, and Eames' erection was bumping against his neck, staining his skin with pre-ejaculate; that, even more than Eames' hoarse pleas, making his desires known.

Arthur smiled softly, moving back enough that he could see and handle Eames' dick at the same time. He'd been able to see it the last time he'd been in the position, but now he had much better lighting, and more leisure to explore. Oh, Eames might beg to differ on that last point. He was probably feeling a pretty urgent need to come, if the tightness of his balls and the way his hips were pulsing and the breathless, needy sounds he was making were any indication. 

But he could hold out a little longer, Arthur noted, clasping his fingers around the shaft of Eames' dick, turning his head to press a soft kiss to the inside of Eames' thigh, the flesh impossibly soft under his lips, muscles flexing like steel beneath.

Just like the last time he'd held Eames' erection in his hand, Arthur could feel the pre-ejaculate running down his fingers, hot and heady. It was really sexy, the way Eames got so wet in anticipation, and Arthur drew back to watch the slit pulse as more clear liquid welled up and ran down the head of Eames' dick, trickling over his foreskin before it reached Arthur's fingers.

He held Eames firmly but carefully, thumb pressing at the base of the head through Eames' foreskin, feeling the heat and throb of blood under his palm, just breathing in the scent of Eames, of his youthful eagerness.

Someday, Arthur thought with a heady rush of arousal, someday he would take this beautiful penis in more than his mouth... but that time was not now. He wasn't going to rush either of them. Someday he would fuck Eames, and someday he would want Eames to fuck him, but he was beginning to think that for that he'd really better wait until Eames was eighteen. Three years was a long time to hold off, it was true, but he wanted to be certain that Eames was sure about his feelings. He wanted to be certain that Eames was sure about them. 

In the meantime there was _plenty_ that they could do to get one another off, and right now Arthur did fully intend to get Eames' gorgeous dick in his mouth again. It was right there, tempting him, begging, throbbing in his hand.

Giving in, Arthur tilted Eames' erection toward him and licked a broad swath up over the slit, tasting the tang of him. He looked upward as he did this, meeting Eames' gaze, smirking a little at the intense heat he found there. Eames cheeks were bright red, as were the tips of his ears, and his lips looked bitten raw.

Arthur wanted to kiss them, sooth them, but he was down here, and as more heated wetness burst from the tip of Eames' twitching dick, Arthur indulged himself in his earlier desire and ran his parted lips over the tip, coating them in the clear liquid.

"A-Arthur," Eames choked out, his stomach flexing above Arthur as he reached down to grab at his head, clutch at his hair again. Arthur let him, licking his lips then moving to take Eames deep into his mouth and down his throat. Just like the last time they'd done this he sensed that Eames wasn't going to last long. Unlike last time though, Arthur intended to play with Eames' dick until he got hard again, and then he could take his time giving Eames a _real_ blowjob. Arthur was good at this, and it seemed a shame that Eames wouldn't get to experience the full range of his talents just because he had a teenager's hair trigger.

He did manage to bob his head a few times, applying suction and curling the flat of his tongue around the head of Eames' dick when he pulled up, his throat working around him as he sank down, but within less than one minute Eames was crying out, curling in all around him, and yanking at Arthur's hair as he came in his mouth.

Unlike last time, Arthur swallowed it all. Then he levered back up to tug Eames into his arms, holding him as he shuddered through the end of his climax, rubbing his back soothingly and pressing warm kisses to his temple.

"Sorry," Eames gasped out as he began to get his breathing under control. Arthur wasn't sure whether he was apologizing for coming so quickly, for not giving Arthur much warning, or for pulling his hair so hard, but he didn't mind any of it. Yes, his scalp was still stinging a little, but it was kind of sexy, and it was nice knowing he'd been able to get Eames so out of control with nothing but his mouth.

"That was great," he reassured Eames, not wanting him to wallow in uncertainty at any point. "Just what I wanted to happen."

"Really?" Eames blinked up at him with heavily lidded eyes and a furrowed brow. He looked so adorable and sexily debauched that Arthur couldn't help but lean down and give him a slow, explorative kiss. 

"Absolutely," he replied, even though he wasn't sure either of them was capable of maintaining a solid train of thought. His erection was aching, demanding its own completion, but he had absolutely no intention of ending this so quickly. It was a pleasant ache, at least. The rich pulse of blood filling him out, causing his dick to jut up from his groin, prodding at Eames' rear. This wasn't anything Arthur had meant; it had just kind of happened when he'd dragged Eames' limp body into his arms, holding him against his chest, but he couldn't bring himself to mind.

Even though he had no intention of taking Eames that way for a good long while, he enjoyed the filthy promise of it, his hard-on nudging at the tight curve of Eames' gorgeous young ass as Eames curled his outside leg up, slinging it over Arthur's hip.

"Do you want me to...?" Eames queried, brows raising, sense bleeding back into his eyes, along with renewed arousal. Arthur had known he'd made the right decision getting Eames off once, early in the game. Now they could take their time, get to know one another's bodies a little better.

"Not yet," Arthur murmured, tugging Eames in closer, nudging at his chin and lips with a mouth still stained with Eames' juices. Eames opened his lips obediently, and they exchanged lazy kisses, tongues pressing, moving from one mouth to another, tangling between them, touching and tasting and occasionally separating for a moment or two of heavy breathing. 

Eames' fingers were threading through Arthur's hair, moving lightly, gently, as though to make up for the way he had yanked at it earlier. Arthur swept his palms over the sharp wings of Eames' shoulderblades, trailed his fingers down his back to either side of his spine, then grabbed with a decided lack of hesitation at Eames firm ass cheeks.

This gained him a low, throttled groan, loosed into their kiss, and Eames nipped at his lower lip. Not hard enough to sting, just enough to be unbearably sexy.

Arthur ran his tongue over the plush curve of Eames' upper lip, then drew back, breaking their kiss to bite gently at Eames' chin as he rolled his nephew onto his back, coming to rest over top of him. He propped himself up on his elbows, even though he knew from sparring that Eames could take his full weight easily enough. 

They exchanged heady, hazy kisses for several moments longer, but Arthur's insistent hard-on was now pressing down against the mattress and he was halfway afraid he might rub off against the bed and spunk like an over-eager teenager -- no offense to Eames, of course -- which would be satisfying in the short term, but which would bring a rather more abrupt end to this tryst than he intended.

Eames was already hardening against Arthur's stomach again, completely justifying Arthur's decision to get him off quickly in his mouth the first time. Arthur could feel the moist shaft of Eames' dick pressing against his skin and he reveled in the sensation. He kind of wanted it in his mouth again, but there were plenty of other things he wanted to do too.

Eames had one hand on the nape of Arthur's neck now as they explored one another's mouths in leisurely sweeps of their tongues, his other hand tracking down Arthur's back, not quite hesitant, but a little shy. 

Arthur kind of liked it. He didn't want Eames to be completely virginal and inexperienced, because then he really would have felt like a pervert. But he also didn't like the idea of Eames knowing his way around another man's body. 

He didn't feel the need to be Eames' first at everything, but he did want to be his first at _most_ things.

"You can," he breathed out against Eames lips, raising his head. "You can touch, Eames."

"Mm." He'd half expected a sardonic response, but Eames just purred and arched into him, hands sliding down his waist to press against the bones of his hips, then his fingers flexing their way slowly, sweetly, until the pads were denting the upper swells of Arthur's ass.

Completely aside from the cocksucking the last time they'd come together, and the fact that he'd been the one to initiate everything, this was the boldest Eames had gotten, and it sent an extra flare of heat through Arthur. As though he needed that. 

Not to say he didn't, of course. But the sudden overwhelming desire to frot against the bed until he came had Arthur shifting his pelvis upward, away from the mattress. Fortunately, Eames didn't take this as any kind of a rejection, and instead he moved his hands down further, properly cupping Arthur's ass the same way Arthur was kneading at his.

This had a nice synchronicity to it, which Arthur definitely approved of, but it was a little awkward, and neither of them quite had the grip he wanted. 

Unexpectedly, Eames removed his hands and shoved at Arthur's chest, not urgently, but very definitely.

"What?" Arthur broke their kiss to ask. He wasn't overly concerned that he'd pushed Eames too hard or anything, but if Eames ever wanted to stop, Arthur would immediately stop. He needn't have worried though, he could tell from the look on Eames' face.

"Roll over," Eames instructed, grinning impishly up at him. "Onto your back, I mean."

And what was Arthur going to do, say no?

Absolutely not. Although he _did_ shift his grip to Eames' hips when he rolled onto his back as directed, dragging Eames with him easily because that was clearly where Eames wanted to go. Eames was straddling his hips now, thighs spread, his hot, smooth balls nestled into Arthur's lower belly, his dick standing out proud and half-hard, his nipples still pointed and perky, a flush running from his face down his neck and chest, his hair even more of a crazy mess than usual. 

He always looked beautiful to Arthur, but he didn't think Eames had looked more beautiful than he did in this moment. Especially as he gazed down at Arthur with hooded eyes that were burning with desire, dark and heated, his kiss-bruised lips curving in a wide smile.

Arthur plastered his hands on Eames' thighs, feeling the hard muscles shifting slightly under his palms and fingers. It felt good just to touch, to hold on. He didn't feel the need to reach for that delightful dick, even though it was almost begging for attention. Yet.

Somehow he didn't think that was what Eames wanted from him right now, anyway. Arthur'd had his chance to suck Eames off; now it was evidently time for Eames to take his turn.

Which he did, bending gracefully at the waist and leaning over his uncle. Eames kissed Arthur's mouth gently, then nibbled at his chin the way Arthur had done to him. Arthur could admit it; he was a fan of biting in bed. And the fact that Eames' teeth were so charmingly crooked made his bites that much more desirable. 

Arthur might not be able to mark Eames, especially once he started going to school and changing in the locker room with other boys, but that didn't mean that Eames couldn't bite Arthur hard enough to leave bruises. As long as he kept it underneath his clothing... the ache traveling with Arthur as he went out into the world and went about his day....

Well, that was something to discuss with Eames later, once they were more familiar and comfortable with one another. Eames might just be mimicking what Arthur had done as an experiment. Arthur wasn't going to push for anything more, their first real time together.

Now Eames was making his wet way down Arthur's neck, just to the right side of tickling, and maybe he did like biting, because he sank his teeth in lightly over Arthur's jugular, nothing that would show by morning but nothing hesitant or tentative about his grip.

Arthur made sure to make his appreciation clear, both with the sounds he loosed and the fingers he sank into Eames' hair. After all, there was nothing more effective than positive reinforcement, and that applied in the bedroom as much as it did at work, Arthur firmly believed.

Eames was too impatient to take his time, but that was all right, Arthur thought when Eames scooted back far enough to brush his thumbs over Arthur's nipples and this had the added benefit of him grinding his tight little rear back into Arthur's hard dick.

These double points of pleasure had Arthur groaning and rearing up off the mattress to grab and kiss Eames breathless all over again, pulling him snugly into his lap.

"No fair," Eames wheezed against Arthur's mouth, even though he was kissing back with all evidence of enthusiasm. "That's cheating."

"Not when we haven't set down any ground rules," Arthur smirked, stroking the muscles to either side of Eames' spine, from up around his shoulder down to his ass. Eames purred and wrapped his arms around Arthur's neck. He didn't seem to mind too much, despite his protestations.

"I do want you to have your chance to touch," Arthur murmured in his ear, "Trust me, I do. But right now I want to show you how good a blowjob I really can give when I can take my time."

Eames chuckled warmly. "Tired of me popping off in your mouth almost immediately?"

Even though he asked the question in a teasing tone, Arthur took it seriously. He never wanted Eames to feel anxious or self conscious in bed. Most especially when there was no cause.

"I find that incredibly flattering," he informed Eames honestly. "And believe it or not, I actually do remember what it's like to be a teenage boy. But that doesn't mean that I don't also want the chance to show off my skills."

"Ooh," Eames crooned, squirming in Arthur's lap in a most tantalizing manner. He certainly didn't protest, but that would have been a little hard to do with his tongue busy inside Arthur's mouth again.

Arthur went along with this, kissing Eames soundly and getting in an additional ass groping, because he was never going to turn down that opportunity, but he really did want to move things along. They had all night, and he did want to take his time, but he also wanted to come at some point, and the more he focused on the delicious teenage body wriggling in his lap, the more he wanted it to be soon.

Relatively soon, anyway. Definitely not until after he'd given Eames the kind of blowjob he knew he was capable of delivering. The time spent attaining that skill during college had proved to be just as useful as the education that had landed him his current job, Arthur thought, even if he didn't use it as often.

"Just for the record," he informed Eames a little breathlessly as he shifted them so that Eames was lying on his back against the pillows again, thigh spread, and Arthur resting mostly on his side between them, his hips angled so that he wouldn't be tempted to hump against the mattress, "I'm probably not going to bring you off in my mouth this time. I'm working out some... other plans."

Eames raised his brows and looked delighted, even though his cheeks were rosy with more than just arousal. "That's fine," he rasped, reaching and running his fingers through Arthur's hair with a delicate touch completely different from the way he'd pulled at it earlier. The last time Arthur'd had his dick in his mouth, in fact. "I've already spunked in your mouth once tonight. Once more might be considered rude."

"Only if it wasn't my goal," Arthur replied, reaching for Eames' rapidly swelling erection. As expected, he was all ready to go again. "And previously, my goal was definitely to have you spunk in my mouth."

Eames laughed, and it was such a good sound to hear, especially after how pale and shaken he had been when Arthur had returned home earlier in the day. 

"But not this time," Eames agreed, lips curving up at the corners. "I'll warn you if I'm getting too close, then, shall I?"

Arthur smirked. "I don't really intend that you be capable of speech by that point," he informed Eames, slowly jacking his hand up and down the shaft of his dick, holding it in a loose clasp that couldn't be doing anything other than teasing.

"Ooh." Eames' lips parted and curved in that ridiculously pornographic way they did. At least now Arthur had the permission -- both from Eames and in his own mind -- to kiss that look off his face whenever he wanted.

Not right now, though. Right now his focus was on hard dick in his hand. That was where his mouth was going.

Arthur pulled Eames' gorgeous erection down toward him, drawing his hand up slowly and gently, dragging the foreskin as far up as it would go when Eames was pretty much fully hard, then sliding it down. This he did utterly for himself, but he did take pleasure in the sounds that it gained him from Eames, rumbling in his chest and choking a little in his throat.

Eames was petting at his head clumsily as Arthur bent and parted his lips, sliding his tongue around the crown through the foreskin, the flesh so heated and silky-soft that he could feel his mouth watering in anticipation.

"Arthur," Eames ground out, in a particularly sexy sort of sound that Arthur didn't think he'd ever get enough of. He'd heard Eames say his name a lot of different ways but this was one of his favorites, right up there with the slow, sleepy drawl of his voice first thing in the morning, when they woke up in bed together.

Which awakening was going to be a lot less awkward now, Arthur thought smugly, as he quit teasing and took the head of Eames' dick in his mouth, sucking on it light, hand working at the shaft. Now when they both woke with morning wood, they wouldn't have to scamper off to their respective bathrooms to jerk off; now they could get off together. Arthur always had loved a nice lazy bout of morning sex.

It had been a while since Arthur'd had a regular lover, someone who spent the night, much less lived with him, and he fully intended to make up all that lost time with Eames, and then some. Especially considering that they had the rest of their lives together to look forward to at this point.

Eames was pawing at Arthur's hair and ears, and letting out some truly exquisite sounds above him, but Arthur's attention was almost exclusively on the beautiful dick in his mouth. He pulled off to lick a broad swath up the shaft, moving his hand to palm the opposite side, then clasping it again, holding it firmly and jacking it a few times.

With his other hand, he cupped Eames' balls, handling them gently but with enough pressure that he could be sure Eames _felt_ it. 

In turn, he could feel Eames' thighs flexing, tightening to either side of him, and his hips were shifting restlessly, as though he wanted nothing more than to thrust up into the wet-heat of Arthur's mouth, the grip of his hand. Well, Arthur could definitely sympathize with that.

And so, because he did want to take his time but he didn't want to be a goddamned tease, he shifted and took Eames' throbbing erection all the way down to the root, shifting his hand down out of the way, until he slid back up.

Then, because he knew how to wind another male up, even if he wasn't a complete asshole, and because he wanted this to last for Eames, for his orgasm to be more intense, Arthur began sliding up and down his no doubt aching dick with steady deliberation, not slowly but not as quickly as Eames probably wanted. Teeth carefully sheathed by his lips, tongue busy, twining around the head as he came up then tracing the thick, throbbing vein when he went back down.

Eames was already leaking pre-ejaculate again, and then combined with Arthur's saliva was making his fingers nice and sloppy wet, easing his grip as he fisted the shaft of Eames' dick whenever he pulled off partway. Arthur set his teeth lightly in the crown of Eames' dick head through the protection of his foreskin, reveling in the throttled cry this gained him. It was in no way pained and only a tiny bit surprised; mostly it was pure pleasure.

In fact, while Arthur worked his magic on Eames' dick, Eames was very much showing his appreciation, with broken half-words, small moans, desperate gasps for breath, and the fingers now firmly sunk in Arthur's hair once again.

His scalp still ached a little, a dull throb, but he barely processed it. Not when his own neglected hard-on was throbbing and demanding its turn, when he was a little lightheaded from shortness of breath, when he had the taste of Eames in his mouth, the smell of him in his nose, and his sounds of agonized pleasure ringing in his ears.

Once he thought he had Eames sufficiently worked up that he was getting close to his climax, Arthur finally pulled away, reluctant, licking delightfully numb lips, wiping his chin with the back of his wrist. Eames was sprawled out in his back, his chest heaving as he panted for air, his eyes slitting open to gaze blearily down at Arthur, his lips bitten crimson.

"How was that?" Arthur asked, his voice a little hoarse, both from arousal and from the moments when he'd taken Eames' dick as far down as he could go. Which was all the way down, of course.

Eames was pretty much beyond words, it was clear, and Arthur smirked. He wasn't going to bring this up again later, but it was nice knowing that he'd been able to reduce Eames to this, just like he'd promised.

Arthur moved up, pausing to kiss Eames on the mouth. It wasn't very dexterous or very deep when they were both trying desperately to catch their breath, but it got their feelings across.

Then Arthur shifted them both so that he was spooning Eames, much like that first time Eames had requested a courtesy handjob, only now it was Arthur who was the driving force behind this position. Eames wasn't exactly limp, but he was definitely less coordinated than he usually was as he did his best to follow Arthur's manipulations of his body.

Arthur maneuvered Eames so that he was pressed back against his chest, made sure his smooth young thighs were close pressed, and then slotted his own hard dick right in between them, until the head of it was nudging at the back of Eames' balls.

Eames made a sound, though whether it was of enlightenment or pleasure, Arthur wasn't sure. Possibly a little of both. It was definitely a low groan of pleasure that he loosed when Arthur reached down and took his erection in hand once again. It was still slick with saliva and pre-ejaculate and Arthur took the opportunity to jack it a few times.

With his own upward thigh slung over Eames', it didn't take much more shifting to get them both moving together, heading toward a one hundred percent satisfying conclusion. Eames was smart enough to recognize exactly what Arthur needed, and he kept his legs tightly squeezed together even as he ground his ass back into Arthur's hips, facilitating him in his rapidly escalating series of thrusts.

This wasn't anything approaching the intensity of penetration, it was true. But it was worlds and away better than that time when Arthur had simply frotted against Eames' ass through the material of his boxers. Arthur held Eames close to him, working himself closer and closer to climax, but still making sure to keep his hand clasped around Eames' hard-on, giving him the stimulation he needed as well.

As much as he was trying to make this good for Eames, Arthur had no more ability in him for finesse, and so it wasn't really that big a surprise when Eames jerked in his arms, letting out a choking cry, his dick jumping in Arthur's grip and spilling his come over the bed before Arthur slid his thumb across the blurting slit, sending most of it to coat his still-moving hand, trickling over his fingers and soaking his palm.

Maybe it was a little gauche of him, but as Eames shivered his way through the aftershocks of his orgasm, Arthur rolled him onto his belly and did his best to ride to his way to his own climax in the humid tightness between Eames' thighs.

Thankfully, this didn't take too long, the sensations rising up and racing through him like rushing water, only hotter than the sun and made up of pure pleasure. He shook his way through it, not even making a sound past one small, guttural grunt as he unloaded on the mattress under Eames, as well as all over Eames' thighs and probably his balls as well.

It was really all far more satisfyingly filthy than it ought to have been, Arthur thought through the warm, comfortable haze that filled his head up and overflowed through his senses. He could smell Eames and himself and their mingled sex. He could hear their harsh breathing, occasionally synching but mostly in counterpoint to one another. He could feel Eames in his arms, turning as Arthur slid off and onto his side, until Eames was tucked in under his chin. 

His eyes he kept closed, though. There was no point in looking anywhere when Eames was below his line of sight, pressed against his chest. Nothing he would be able to see now would be as satisfying as having had Eames laid out before him, in a lean stretch of growing limbs, like the best kind of smorgasbord. 

And, okay, maybe that was a slightly irreverent way of thinking of his nephew. But what was Eames if he wasn't delicious?

"Ugh," Eames commented, sounding hoarse and fucked out. "I'm laying in the wet spot."

At the sound of his voice Arthur roused slightly, reluctantly.

"I think the whole bed's a wet spot now," he replied, nuzzling at the crown of Eames' head even though his hair tickled his nose. "I should probably get up and change the sheets."

"Yeah, good luck with that," Eames snorted, the sound hitting Arthur's clavicle in a rush of hot-moist breath and sending a shiver through him. "If you can move after that, you're a stronger man than me."

Arthur chuckled, then when Eames belied his words and shifted to raise his chin, he bent to kiss the proffered lips, soft and sweet, just a quick flicker of tongue because he wasn't trying to turn either of them on right now, but with no hesitation and no real desire to break away from Eames either.

Eames squirmed, and they were both still struggling to catch their breath, so the kiss didn't last forever.

"Actually, maybe I should get up and clean myself off," Eames said reflective. "As hot as it was when you came all over me, I don't want to wake up stuck to the sheets."

Arthur laughed a little, kissed Eames again, and then they both reluctantly pried themselves apart from each other and off of the bed. Eames really was a bit of a mess, and Arthur hadn't escaped unscathed.

Before Eames could head for the bathroom again, Arthur snagged him, kissing him until they were both breathless again and his spent dick was twitching, even though he wasn't young enough that he'd be able to get it up again right away like that.

"How about you help me remake the bed, then we shower together?" he suggested smoothly. He didn't really need the help, but he could use it, still feeling lethargic and lazy from orgasm, and besides, he didn't want to let Eames get that far out of his sight for that long.

Eames raised his brows, then gave Arthur a delighted grin and another breath-sapping kiss.

"Okay," was all he said, but he set to stripping off the sheets with gusto while Arthur fetched more from the linen closet in the hall.

Arthur mused to himself that he was going to find the resiliency of youth alternately convenient and annoying, not that he didn't already. Right now it was definitely better than not; especially once they finished making the bed and got into the shower and Eames proved that he was ready for a third orgasm, and Arthur's dick decided that after all he _was_ youthful enough for a second orgasm in the same evening.

Everything with Eames felt right and comfortable, and Arthur was now convinced that he had absolutely no reason to regret his decision, his resolve to give him and Eames a chance. It was still ill-advised and a little bit insane, but he was dead certain that for them it was going to _work_.

This time when they went to bed, Arthur felt zero qualms about collecting Eames into his arms and holding him close. Eames moved fluidly into his embrace, outside arm and leg slinging over Arthur as he snuggled in tightly. They'd been sleeping in the same bed the majority of the time Eames had been living with Arthur, but this was the first time Arthur didn't feel as though he was doing something wrong.

Oh, he knew he _ought_ to feel that way. He hadn't completely taken leave of his senses. But when Arthur committed to doing something, he did it all the way. And he was completely committed to Eames.

He was so sure of this fact that it actually startled him a little when Eames whispered, a little uncertainly, "Is this okay?"

"More than," Arthur replied promptly, because there was no way he had leaving Eames hanging in a moment of doubt as to his place in Arthur's heart. "Absolutely. Better than that. Never think otherwise."

He could feel Eames smiling against his collarbone, and he smiled in echo, even though two orgasms in one evening had pretty much wiped him out. Not to mention making the bed. And all of this after the emotional drain of fretting during his drive home and dealing with Eames' painful reaction to his late return....

Well, he was tired. And he could tell that Eames was on the verge of falling asleep as well.

"I have tomorrow off," he said, before he could get too sleepy to speak, while Eames was still awake to hear him. "What do you say we forgo our usual morning run and just sleep in until we feel like getting up?"

"Or until we're _up_?" Eames asked with a wicked little glance upward that Arthur intuited more than saw, since he'd turned off the lamp so they could sleep.

"That's a distinct possibility," he yawned, rubbing at Eames' upper back with rapidly deteriorating dexterity. He'd been thinking about sleepy morning sex earlier himself, after all. Even though he was too exhausted and satiated to consider it now, he knew that with a good night's rest and no alarm clock blaring in his ear, not to mention the eternal morning wood he'd been suffering ever since Eames had started sharing his bed, he'd feel far differently about it in the morning.

"And you're not going to... push me away tomorrow?" Eames asked hesitantly, his voice small and anxious.

Arthur bit his lip, restraining a sigh. Because Eames _needed_ this verbal reassurance. He had no way of knowing how serious Arthur was about this, about _them_ if Arthur didn't tell him once in a while. Or more often then that, if it took time to sink in, to seem real to Eames. Arthur already knew that Eames didn't take anything for granted where affection and love were concerned, and he had no problem with giving Eames what he needed to feel safe and self-assured.

"I will never push you away," he murmured, squeezing Eames with arms that were still noodly, but which gained a little strength in response to Eames' insecurity. There was more they needed to discuss, like the fact that their behavior couldn't change in public or around friends, but Eames was smart, Arthur was sure he already knew all that stuff. And Arthur was _wiped_. The only thing that he needed to convince Eames of right now was how much he was wanted, desired, loved.

"No regrets," he continued, sounding as certain as he could, because that was how he felt. "No doubts, no taking it back, no changing my mind. Trust me in this, Eames."

"I do trust you," Eames whispered, and he sounded a little choked up but Arthur didn't think he was in danger of crying. Probably. "I trust you to keep your word, and now you just gave it to me. So I'll... I'll try not to be so scared."

"I love you," Arthur said, putting it out there because he knew that Eames needed to hear it, knew that Eames would never take it for granted without hearing it from Arthur's lips. "And I'm committed to this. Even though it's kind of crazy and not sanctioned by the rest of the world."

Eames didn't even flinch at this last sentence, because he was too busy glowing over the first sentence. Arthur could _feel_ this, even in the darkness.

"I love you too," he husked, clinging to Arthur in a way that made him more sad than uncomfortable. Though he was glad to hear it. He'd already known, but it was good that they could speak the words to one another. "I love you the same way I loved Mum, but in so many different ways as well."

Arthur didn't exactly like being reminded of his familial tied to Eames when they were curled up naked in bed together, but if he was going to be entering into an incestuous relationship then he was going to have to get used to it. 

The fact that he was Eames' uncle wasn't a turn-off. It was kind of kinky and did nothing to make him want to stop. But the mental image of Moira, even though he only really knew her from photographs and a few brief moments of contact....

"Thanks," he said, because he knew that Eames had meant it as a compliment above all else. And it wasn't as though they were having sex right now.

He very deliberately did not think about how Moira would feel about him bedding her son, his nephew. It was sad but she was dead now, and Arthur had been left to pick up the pieces of Eames that had spilled into the hole left by that loss. How he had chosen to do so.... Well, maybe the entire rest of the world, living and dead, would have disapproved -- to put it mildly -- but Arthur knew what was right for the two of them. And this was right.

"Sleep now?" Eames asked hazily, rubbing his cheek against Arthur's upper chest. He sounded on the verge of it, and Arthur didn't think his answer was going to make an ounce of difference, but he replied in the affirmative anyway.

"Sleep well." He kissed what he could reach of Eames, which was the top of his head. That was enough for now.

He had Eames in his arms and they'd come to an understanding. It was a strange understanding, but they were in this together and that was what really mattered. 

Arthur had always been so thrilled when Eames had called his house "home". Now he knew that Eames could call his heart "home" as well. And Eames knew it too.

Arthur still couldn't quite believe that he and Eames were related, but he wouldn't have passed up this connection and their inevitable meeting for anything in the world.

They belonged together and they belonged to one another.


End file.
